


Poetry Made You Beautiful, It Did Not Make You Strong

by basketcasewrites



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Awkward first meeting, Cheating, Established Peter/Harry, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm polyamorous why am I writing unhealthy love triangles?, Internal Conflict, Love Triangle, M/M, Obsession, Peter Parker Has No Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-01-25 05:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12523580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: However faint the lines between enchantment and obsession are, they do exist. Knowing this was easier before Peter's deep brown eyes were all that Wade could think about.In which Wade is crazy about Peter, a young man too consumed with his own chaotic life.





	1. Wasted On You

**Author's Note:**

> Flashback to the beginning of the year when I started a fic titled "String of Pearls", forward 15 chapters later and insert a writer with no idea where to go, what they were even doing and nothing but contempt for said story.  
> It's been three, four, maybe even five months since I decided to edit and rewrite this fic and have instead come out of this with what is an entirely different story. Of the old story, I have kept one (1) scene, since it is a) important to the story, and b) an opportune moment of indulgence for the writer.  
> Before we begin, I'd like to take a moment to thank Gezi, my amazing senpai and my absolute rock; helping me through writer's block, forcing me to go and write when I was procrastinating, staying up way past midnight with me to brainstorm names of clubs, read my rants and help me put the pieces of the story together. I'd also like to thank my sib, Fade, who was there to listen to me rant for hours and hours and provide emotional support. Without them I probably would have given up before I even began. 
> 
> Without any further ado; Enjoy, pumpkins ♡

Cold concrete biting into the latex covered flesh of the backs of his thighs, legs dangling over the edge of the sky high building, Deadpool sat. The city, in all the glory of its midday rush, bustled far beneath him. He clutched at the edge of the roof, fingers flexing against the rough edge of the old skyscraper as he watched over the steady movements of the miniature people. Watched as, to and fro, they raced from one destination to the next. 

"People are crazy," he muttered to himself, observing them critically. Shaking his head slowly, disapproving as he watched. 

Days like these, infrequent and far between, when he was not on call and free of any missions, he enjoyed passing his time in idle. Lording over the city of New York from high above; passing the time in guarding it and its civilians.  
His actions were not those of heroism: as many things as Deadpool was, not all of which pleasant, being heroic was far from on that list. Spending all that time with the Avengers must have been rubbing off on him; the only defense to his recent superhero-like antics that he could think of. A violent shiver snaked up Deadpool's spine at the mere thought.

Shouts rang out from the crowd. A startling commotion drawing Wade's attention sharply up the commuter-filled streets. Away from him, but not by much, a crowd gathered and aggressively separated. Raucous, hurtling cold obscenities as a lithe figure pushed their way through the hoards of prim suits and solid briefcases, bright red handbag tucked under arm. From not that far behind, another person forged through the masses in heated pursuit. 

A second passed, two seconds, three without Deadpool making a move to do anything. The man completely intrigued in the scene unfolding before his very eyes. A loud yell, an angry executive being pushed aside, snapped him out his trance. 

"That's my call to action!" Deadpool declared brightly— without a doubt he was spending too much of his time with the Avengers, a problem for him to encounter on another day; on any other day— casting a fair glance over the scene before him, Deadpool readjusted his mask and the pair of swords on his back before gracefully jumping right into the midst of chaos. 

Crowd thickening around him, most continuing with their afternoon trek home, the scowls on their faces construed easily as anything from a sign of their unhappiness at the disruption or simply the expression that they usually wore; an expression common amongst most office-dwellers. Mouth pinched as if swallowing something bitter. 

Few in the crowd, heard but unseen, even cheered on the tall brunet streaking past them as he successfully shortened the space between himself and the petty thief. Grabbing at the neck of the olive green raincoat draped over the frame of a petite girl, no more than fifteen if Wade were to judge, the younger man tightened his grasp onto the material. He placed an arm around her torso to hold her firmly in place— the raincoat oversized, large enough that if the thief squirmed more she could slip easily out of it and away. Him, strong enough to keep his hold even as she writhed uncontrollably. 

"Aw, did I miss all the fun?" Deadpool asked in a voice tinged with false disappointment, pouting underneath his mask as he strode through the quickly dissipating crowd— bored now that the chase was over, glad that they could make their ways to apartments and subways and families without having to give another thought to what had taken place; the event probably already having faded from their minds— towards the stranger.

Deadpool leaned in close to the thief, bending so that his face was almost directly in front of hers. With a critical eye, a raised eyebrow, he gave her a once over. Closer up, it was apparent that she was younger than the man's initial assumption, nearer to twelve that fifteen. A light dusting of acne graced her greasy forehead and spotted her chin, heavy bags rested under her eyes— if she was twelve, she was a twelve-year-old who was not very well taken care of. Tired and dejected, neglection was written about her.

Her dark grey eyes flashed violently, angrily, the longer Deadpool stared into them, barely any warning coming before she spat in his face. The slick globule of clear liquid landing just below the eye of his mask. Recoiling, Deadpool wiped away the saliva with the back of his hand. Grateful that it hadn't been strong enough to seep through the material. 

Staring down the girl, the brunet's deep brown eyes giving him a quick once over went unnoticed. His brows furrowing in faint recognition. Holding tight onto the girl, he strained. The thief once again battling against the man's impromptu restraints. "What the fuck— Let me go—" her steady stream of curses and angry pleas an echo in the background, playing below the soundtrack of people passing them. 

The man, now focusing all his attention on the girl and completely ignoring Wade, deadpanned, "I don't know if you know this, but stealing is wrong."

The words, the moment they were uttered drew a deep, guttural yell from her throat; seemed only to strengthen her ire. An ear splitting yell that shook not only the both men, but also a few of the passersby. The rattling yell erupting at the same moment that a set of policemen pushed their way to where Deadpool and the man stood, nodding their gratitude as they 'cuffed the thief and took her with them. The entire affair barely a blimp on their screen, the event beginning and ending in a matter of minutes. Taking place, overall, in less than half an hour. 

"Why're you still here?" the man, huffing out shallow breaths as he tried to calm himself back down, asked Deadpool. His tone not friendly in the least. 

A hand shot to Wade's chest as a gasp of air fell from his lips, affronted, he stood in the man's questioning gaze. "You sound like you don't want me here, handsome stranger."

"Oh, great," he said, more to himself than to anybody around him, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips. "A crazy in a spandex suit." He adjusted his glasses subconsciously, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with the press of his index finger. 

"I'm right here," Wade exclaimed, "Also, you're not one-hundred percent wrong." From underneath his mask shot a smile at the man standing before him, taking him in. His eyes, deep brown, framed by thick tortoiseshell glasses that took up most of his face, lips turned up at the corners in a soft grin directed Deadpool's way. "So," Wade said, nonchalant. "You going to tell me your name, or what?" 

At that, the man scoffed and raised a pointed eyebrow at Wade. "Really? Tell the guy with two large swords and a gun— oh, wait," he paused, laughed humourlessly, "Guns, shit— my name? Do you think I'm the one who is crazy?" 

"Hey, in my defense, the cops didn't seem to mind... Anyway, it's easy. Example, I'm Deadpool, nice to meet you," Deadpool introduced himself, following behind the much younger man as he made his way back through the crowd to gather together the camera and badge-decorated backpack, left conveniently with a seemingly reliable security guard. Met with only his stony silence, Wade muttered to himself, "Oh, hello, Deadpool. My name isn't Handsome Stranger. My name is... Mitchell? Yeah, you look exactly like a Mitchell." He glanced up at the back of his head, shaking his own. "Okay, so not Mitchell. Dorothy? Yeah, I know it's traditionally female but gender is arbitratry and all that. Not Dorothy. Okay. Hmm... Jace? Alec? Magnus Bane! Yeah, you could be a Magnus Bane, Lord knows you're hella magical. Still nothing? If you're Magnus, can I be Alec? I already have the drop dead sexy thing going on, the whole dark and brooding thing might take a bit of work. I can be dark and brooding if that's what you like. Is that what you like? Okay, Magnus, still nothing. How about Anthony. Woah, imagine if you're an Anthony. Simon? Raphael? You don't strike me as a Rapha—"

Deadpool had thought that the man had not only been ignoring him, but blocking out his words completely. Subsequently, he was proved wrong when the man barked out a short laugh. Turning to Wade, he shrugged, "You don't stop speaking ever, do you?" he asked, incredulous, "What are you even talking about? You make no sense!"

"What? You're shitting me right now, right? No fucking way," Wade exclaimed, his own turn to be incredulous, "If we're going to be hanging out with each other, Rafa, you're going to have to introduce yourself to some good books and TV shows."

Ignoring Deadpool, the man said, "My name's not Mitchell... Or Handsome Stranger, or Raphael just so you know. It isn't any of those others either... It's Peter."

Trying hard to contain his joyful, childish squeal at the unexpected admission, Deadpool watched as Peter slung his dark green satchel over his subtly muscled shoulders and walked away from Wade, throwing an awkward smile over his right shoulder the masked mercenary's way. 

._._._. 

"You won't believe it if I told you, Weasel," Wade exclaimed, banging a hand on the table to get the bartender's attention. The man, casting a sidelong glance his way without saying a word, "But God kill me if I have not just seen the most amazing thing."

Pouring a drink and sliding it in front of the hoodie-wearing man leaning excitedly over the counter, Weasel dryly stated, "I don't want to hear about anymore dicks, I've told you this."

"No, no, no. I swear no more dicks," Wade swore, waving his hands indignantly before him. "Listen to me, okay. I saw the most beautiful man that I have ever laid my eyes on. A fucking angel. Ass like, fuck. Ass like God himself."

"I don't care, Wade. I know how this will end up— Stop shitting your pants, bud, I've got your drink right here!" he broke away to yell at the hulking man standing behind Wade, looming over him, handing over two pitchers full of putrid beer. "Fucking idiots, all of them. What was I saying? Yeah, I know how this is going to end. You're going to chase after this kid. You're going to fuck this kid. You're going to be heartbroken when this kid leaves."

Wade shrugged, slugging back half of his bitter drink, enjoying the slight burn as it made its way down his throat. Allowing himself the time that Weasel had taken to serve other patrons of the sleazy bar, rapid paced music and raucous yelling a constant background to any person's thoughts, he reflected on what the man had just said. True, his record with relationships far from squeaky clean. Also true, though unspoken, at heart he was a romantic. Borderline crazy, as many described him, obsessive, too, but that was beside the point. 

"Look. Just take a look at him," he shoved his phone into Weasel's face. "Look at him." Wade smiled proudly at the clarity of the image. 

"What the fuck, Wilson? You take this picture from outside a window, or something?" 

With a shrug, he curled his hand around the clunky cell and pocketed it. Sheepishly murmuring, "Or something."

The look that Weasel shot his way, a pair of light blond eyebrows raised in fuddled confusion, his minor interest peaked, was one that clearly stated for him what he did not immediately say: he wanted to be left out of it. "Whatever, man," he said, wiping down one of many grimy spots on the counter. "Just don't do anything too crazy, okay?" 

He wouldn't make any promises. "Too late."

"Look, there's some new girls at Violet Delights," Weasel gestured lazily in the direction of the infamous strip club not far from Sister Margaret's, another one of their favourite haunts, "Guys, too, if that's what you want tonight. Check it out. Get a lap dance or two... Or three... Or four. Maybe a blow."

"Do my ears deceive me or are you offering me your services?" Wade fluttered his eyelashes daintily at Weasel, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. 

"Yeah, right," came the ready scoff. "You wish you could get me."

With a thick laugh, Wade nodded his agreement and downed the remnants of his drink, deciding against one for the road. He slid a thick wad of money across the grime-covered counter toward the almost equally as grimy blond man on the other side, addressing him an exaggerated false salute as he slid off the barstool and pushed his way through the crowded room. Leaving the charm of the seedy bar, too loud music still able to be heard from the curb, behind him, Wade inhaled deeply. For once, he conceded, Weasel may have had the perfect idea; solution to what even he could see as a growing problem. Air a different kind of warm than inside— a different kind of suffocating— Wade inhaled deeply, filling his lungs and letting it out in a huff of hot breath, and calmly walked the few blocks to Violet Delights.

Purple lights lit up the expansive space, space filled end to end with writhing and grinding bodies. People dancing, watching, drinking, talking. All of it obscured by the hazy cloud of smoke that was as much a part of the club as any other. 

"You looking to spend money here tonight, sweetheart," the matron, standing tall in her elaborate, sequined garb, said to Wade as he passed her by; more a knowing statement, less a question. 

From his frequent visits to the club, Wade had struck an intimate friendship with the woman. However close they were, the only name he had ever known by was Queen Sapphire— Queenie for short, Queen for shorter. 

"You know it, Queenie," Wade chirped, smiling mischievously. "Heard there's some new blood."

"Brunet, I know how you like brunet's," Queen said fondly, cutting straight to business as she cast her searching, regal eye around the packed club. She stood tall. Both in and out of the thin-heeled stilettos that were a constant part of her wardrobe Queen towered more than a head taller than everybody else in a room. Glancing at Wade only to see his steady nod, she gestured gracefully to someone across the room, calling them towards her. "Have fun, sweetheart," she cooed, urging him into the comfortable leather, padded sofa. "He's new but, oh, you're going to love him. Ta ta." Her smile dazzling as she waved at Wade, sauntering off to continue looking over the club in the way that only she really could. 

He settled into his seating, getting comfortable as he waited to be completely entranced by the feel of a body grazing against his own. The sensuality of graceful movement to distract him; especially from someone who had been praised by the Queen herself. 

"Hello, Mr Wilson," a soft masculine voice greeted him, lilting seductively on each word. Even in this light Wade could make out the deep hazel coloured eyes, a loose strand of curly brown hair fell into his face. It was a face that Wade could have recognized everywhere, a face that he had grown fairly accustomed to. Peter. The name fell from his lips, lost gratefully in the music thrumming through the walls. In the haziness of the club, fog creeping in every inch that wants covered by furniture, it was easy to make the mistake. Brown eyes and brown hair; easy to confuse. 

Audibly, he swallowed. Shaken. "Wade," he said to the stranger, already mentally dubbing him Peter. "You can call me Wade." 

"Okay, Wade," he said, smiling softly and looking Wade directly in the eye, not in the least deterred by the thick scarring over his entire face.

"You look like you're too young to be doing this." 

"Maybe," he said, beginning his routine, "Maybe not. You can call me Prince."

Wade smiled, nodded, his head lolling back slightly at the comfortable weight of the Peter look-alike above him. "Hey, we're friends. First name basis kind of shit."

The quiet laugh that Prince exhaled, a sweet chuckle just below his breath, made Wade's head spin. Made him headier than any combination of drugs and alcohol. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to know how it would feel to have Peter here, Peter instead of this man, Peter pressed against him. Weasel was right, Wade chastised himself, he was in too deep. 

"How about this, Wade," Prince murmured, warm air from his mouth right beside Wade's ear as he leaned in close. His strong, lean fingers splayed on the man's shoulders, drawing slow circles in the rough skin of Wade's collarbone. "You come back tomorrow and... I'll tell you all about myself."

Wade was certain that the young man knew exactly the effect that he was having on him. Prince must have heard the swallow, the gulp, the sigh, as his lips brushed against Wade's ear. With a moan at the contact that he had craved for weeks, Wade nodded; his promise already made, he returned. 

._._._.

This was not how he had planned to spend the rest of his night; sitting astraddle a large marble gargoyle, body sore. Wade rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to loosen the tense muscles, hurting from hours of him sitting in this one position. 

He did not deny that he had brought it upon himself, had made the decision that undoubtedly had lead him to this. Four hours must have passed, he guessed. Four, drawn out hours that he had spent staring into a room that, if not for its furnishings, stood empty. 

The curtains— a pale blue that, even from this distance, he could see were premium quality— were barely a few inches apart. Wade could peek light brown wooden floors, the end of a bed covered with white linen, the corner of a shiny grape comforter overlapping with the edge of the bed. The walls, a stark white that matched the linen. He saw, too, a large painting adorning the wall directly in his line of vision— an explosion of colour on canvas, dazzling in its spectacular beauty, it was out of place in the room.

At any moment he could have made the decision to leave; to walk away. There was no longer a legitimate reason as to explain why he still continued to wait— to be perfectly honest, there had not been a legitimate reason for his endeavor even from the beginning. Deciding to follow Peter home had been made as most of his decisions were: impulsively, without much prior thought. 

He sighed, boredom niggling at him as the room remained empty. It was a Friday night; there was more he could be doing than stalking the sneaker, ripped jean clad hero, stiff and sore in a way he did not like to be. Curiosity got the better of him. Wade would not, could not, leave. Not after all this time. 

Wade would readily spend hours gushing over Peter if he were asked. Would do it even if he wasn't. He could not understand the strong attraction he had towards the man— rather, he could understand it: he could not explain it. Barely had he even had a conversation with him. 

He wriggled in his seat, boredom bleeding into impatience. Only now doubt announcing itself, pointing an accusing finger his way. What was he doing? Waiting outside of the room of the boy he was crazy about. A boy who himself may have already forgotten Deadpool— Wade would not blame him for doing so. Hoping, if the Gods were for once working in his favour, to find him alone. 

As if all his silent prayers were being answered, the bedroom door of polished wood opened into the lavishly designed room. Deadpool sat up straighter, glee shooting through him at this slight movement. The soreness of his body was immediately forgotten, replaced with a distant dull ache that he did not register. The mere possibility that his questions might finally have answers awakened him, snapped him out of any sense of tired boredom. 

In entered a man, familiar in that way that celebrities often appeared familiar, dressed in a slim-fitting navy blue suit cut to perfectly fit his body without attempt towards hiding his toned physique. He walked further into the room, closer to the large clear set of windows that overlooked upstate Manhattan, and Wade realized why he had recognized him. The man was Harry Osborne: New York's golden boy himself, dressed to impress even in the confinements of his own apartment. 

The idea that he might have completely wasted the entirety of his evening— creeping around when he could have been doing something more productive, something more like drinking his weight in beers or bedding any of a bevy of beauties that wandered Sister Margaret's or visiting the very willing Peter look-alike, Prince— crept to the forefront of his mind. 

Harry ran a strong hand through his head of thick dark curls, raising a glass of what looked like whiskey, on the rocks, to his lips. He raked his eyes lazily over the image of the city, still bustling at even this late into the night, far below him. Wade watched him, now enthralled by the man and his oblivion. 

Glancing over his sculpted shoulder, a deep laugh cracked his face into a wide and uninhibited smile, bubbled up from him easily. His smile— beautiful, the work of skilled dentists, Wade couldn't help himself from matter-of-factly thinking— danced across his handsome face, lighting up each every corner. Wade slouched forward, interest peaked at the notion of someone else in the room, standing just out of his view. 

The night, he conceded, might finally grow interesting. 

Harry ran his hands down the front of his suit, smoothing it down into place. He adjusted the needle on an antique vinyl player that Wade had, surprised to discover this, not noticed before. Steady, he clapped his hands together in quick succession, as if summoning the other person to him in time with the music wafting from the player. 

A woman, all slim curves and grace, waltzed into view. Slowly, she moved into the room, placing one stilettoed heel in front of the other. Her body, each languid movement accentuated by the skintight material of the black dress that hugged her close, was magnificent: a work of art that left Deadpool speechless— even morese than Peter's did, but Wade suspected that that was only because he had only ever seen Peter's body hidden beneath layers of baggy clothing. 

Harry placed a hand on the woman's hip, seeming to hold her in place in front of him as he cast his unmistakable approving gaze upon her. A strand of her rusty, bright red hair fell from the loose chignon she wore at the base of her neck and Harry smoothly tucked it behind her ear. The action— simple, common, if not it were of Harry's fingers brushing against the side of her face, trailing over her cheek and jaw after he had tucked the hair back into place, the constant staring into each other's eyes— made Wade only now feel as if here intruding. As if had just witnessed an exchange much too intimate. 

Quickly, Wade averted his eyes, seeing Harry lovingly finger the string of pearls that adorned her neck— the only jewelry that the woman wore— before he leaned in towards her for a long kiss. He no longer had any business here, Deapool came to the disappointing, deflating conclusion; Peter was not in the room in front of him, and he had no reason to continue to play Peeping Tom outside Harry Osborne's apartment. 

Forlornly, he patted the head of the grimacing gargoyle, silently thanking the creature for the company that it had granted him. Readjusting his position on the cold marble he readied himself to leave, taking one quick look into the apartment before he made his departure. 

The woman had inched away from Harry and closer to the record player. She stood with her back to Harry, head bowed low, stylishly cut fringe obscuring the view of most of her face. As if he were starving for her Harry stood with his body pressed flush against hers, his strong-knuckled hands roaming over her fit body, lips against the nape of her swan-like neck. 

She threw her head back and Wade stilled. He saw it in those large brown eyes, opened large and dilated black, he saw it in the strong jaw and slim nose, he saw it, even, in the soft pink lips and blissful smile cutting across that beautiful face. He recognized it immediately: Peter. His Peter. Deadpool's initial reaction, a cold hand of envy gripping him firm at the thought of Peter in the hands of another man, followed by stark bewilderment. 

He fell back into his seat, hard enough to send a shiver of pain up his back. Watching the two of them he found himself riddled with confusion and, underlying it all, awe.  
He didn't know where to look, where in front of him he should focus his eyes. In jerking, erratic movements he roamed over Peter's body. Finally, and with a start, he trained his eyes on the string of pearls, focusing on them for lack of anything else to focus on, burning the sight of the bright white against the golden skin into his memory. 

Mouth agape beneath his mask, he watched the events unfolding before him: his own private viewing of a live-action play. Wade could feel it burrowing itself under his skin: shame, growing as he couldn't help but hungrily follow Harry's groping hand. Breath hitching underneath his mask as Pete's back arched into Harry at each touch, no matter how slight; a hand cupping at a full breast, curling around crotch.  
As if for dear life, they held onto each other, sharing sloppy kisses; passionate, intense. He stared with twisted fascination, unable to look away even as Harry began to fondle with less desperation and more purpose— slowly pulling down the zip of the dress, allowing the flimsy material to fall away. Inch by inch golden, almost flawless skin, was exposed: an unpermitted strip-show. Deadpool did, now, look away; tearing his eyes away with a force even he did not know he possessed. 

He had spent unashamed hours fantasizing about Peter's strong body as each rippling muscle that Wade had only ever seen encased beneath the less than figure-hugging uniform of jeans and ratty t-shirts and sweaters was was slowly released from any, and all, forms of clothing. Picturing the man, uninhibited, scantily clad and laying before Wade in the most obscene of poses; offering his body to Wade in a way that Wade would never be able to turn down, to resist.  
Yes, Wade had spent countless hours as he fantasized in great, filthy, detail about Peter being with him in varying degrees of absolute intimacy. And, if he ever got the chance to be with him like that, he was certain it would be with Peter's complete and utter permission. Not like this, sneaking a peek through a window like a creep; a pervert. 

He adjusted his seating on the gargoyle and, with one last glance into the room, he forced himself to leave. Making his way to Sister Margaret's distractedly, the image of the younger man continually playing behind his eyes. The images, as much as he attempted to tamp them down, replayed the entire night; left Wade guilty, physically uncomfortable in such a way that for the rest of the night he could not sleep. 

The next morning, waking up beside a slender brunet he had, not for the first time, all too willingly decided to take to bed, Wade was beyond grateful to find a string of calls waiting for him to answer.

However many days followed, it seemed, would be choked full without him having any idea when he would have a moment free. Quietly, in the hush of the almost silent bedroom, soft sunlight filtering through the crooked blinds, Wade sent a mental thank you to any higher power that may have been listening to him. For now, or at least for a short amount of time, there was ample excuse for him to offer himself so he would stay away from Peter. 

._._._. 

Steadily pacing up and down the small front room of his apartment, Wade uttered to himself, grabbing at his head anxiously. "You can't do this, Wade," he scolded himself, a hollow yelling that echoed throughout his room. "You fucking pervert, what the hell is wrong with you? You can't just— Fuck it!"  
Burying deep the inner conflict, Wade threw his mask on and rushed out from his apartment. 

He was not strong enough to stay away from Peter, that much he had realized. Wade begrudgingly admitted to himself again and again, this was the chink in his armour. Making his way through the bustling city, changing its colours as the sun began its setting, he regarded himself with sheltered pity.

A mere four days had passed with him being occupied in shady deals and back-alley contracts, a mere four days in which the one reason he was able to keep his solemn promise and stay away from the younger man was that he was far too busy to even allow the mere thought of Peter to cross his mind— Peter's eyes, dark and tinged with humour and lust, lips shining wet and bright pink, hands, such strong hands— He inhaled shakily, catching himself as his mind drifted into murky waters, no longer even the gutter. 

Only a few minutes later, the strong desire racing through Wade more a medium of time passing in the blink of an eye than anything else, Wade found himself across from the large apartment. Once again straddling the disfigured gargoyle. Once again prepared to wait, no matter how long it took. 

He buried low the shame with futile promises that he would stay long enough only to see as Harry and Peter began. Swore that he would leave at the mere suggestion of clothes being removed. Made a silent oath that he would not violate Peter's privacy any more than he already was.


	2. Your Touch, My Comfort, And My Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title for chapter one from Too Good by Troye Sivan
> 
> chapter title from Ease by Troye Sivan ♡

Nervously absent-minded, Peter played with the slim cuffs of his navy blue sweatshirt, an old habit he slipped easily into whenever he was nervous. This, the nearest alternative to actually cutting small holes into the sleeves that he could find.

His deep brown eyes darted over the sleek, ultramodern entrance of the club— shiny glass front door, matte black doorframe. The club's name— unlit for the span of the day, waiting to shine its brilliant, fluorescent purple once night came— hung carelessly slanted, dead center on the front of the building, curlicued text spelling out _Violet Delights_. It seemed much more like the respectable place of business it was than what, over passing time, Peter had conditioned himself to believing.

With one large inhale, holding it in for four; an even larger exhale, letting go for ten— a calming exercise that he had learned years ago, during one of various rounds of therapy that Peter had been forced to sit through after his uncles passing. Rounds of therapy he still insisted he did not need.  
Pushing his way into the club, immediately stunned: the sight of the room as it stood, with empty chairs and empty tables, even emptier stages. It all filled him with stomach churning discomfort, a sudden bout of nausea that he knew would quickly pass.

The years had passed; piling themselves up forlornly in dusty corners of memory, hiding away as they were brought to an end and were subsequently forgotten. So long since he had last stepped foot into this place that it no longer filled him with that sheer sense of home, of solace and safe haven. Years since this very floor had been graced almost nightly by his quick-footed step, his subtle infectious laugh.

He shook his head slowly, a subconscious movement to clear his mind, and shoved shaking hands deep into the pockets of the warm, charcoal grey coat— the coat, a favourite of Harry's and one he wore frequently, his subtle masculine scent bathed in it. Conveniently having picked it from their shared closet that morning, reveling in how soft the expensive material felt against his skin as he slipped into it, Peter now wrapped it tight around himself and breathed in deeply. Coffee and vanilla, satin and silk: smelling so strongly of Harry, he may have been right there. Instantly, Peter calmed.

Inhale on four, he remembered. Exhale on ten. Four and ten. Four and ten.

"Hi," Peter greeted softly, voice barely above a whisper, too soft to even glean the attention of the raven-haired desk clerk. Clearing his throat, sound unintentionally harsh, Peter tried to channel forth his best act of confidence. With a crooked smile adorning gentle masculine features, he greeted the young woman seated comfortably behind the counter, "Um, hello. Uh, hello, hi. I've got an appointment with Queenie. I'm Peter Parker."

Fingers itching terribly, he fought to keep them still, to not tap them impatiently against the solid top of the counter as he waited for the clerk to gather her bearings. Loosely, his fingers curled and uncurled; another nervous habit.

Promptly, she busied herself on the computer, throwing a polite smile Peter's way. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, not for the first time, taking a second to train bright grey eyes on Peter, the hint of an accent ringing through just barely, "They change this system every few weeks and just expect us to learn it. I'd call Rache, but none of us really have an idea of how this all works yet." She laughed sweetly, self-deprecating yet edged with annoyance, as she tapped sharp, manicured nails across the keyboard.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured her, smiling and offering encouragement more for his own benefit than for hers. That seemed to ease her few nerves considerably, enough so that in a few minutes she had managed to pull up the appointment book, check that he was indeed an expected visitor, and send him on his way with an appreciative smile.

Peter waited patiently as she directed him through a masked door that blended well into the sleek black wall, past it, down a small passageway.

Walking the length of the narrow passage, the usual light tap that came from the underneaths of his Converses muffled against the thick maroon carpet. He stepped in front of the familiar door at the end of the hallway, sleek, matte black as everything else in this club, breathing in once before rapping his knuckles against the cool wood.

The thought that he may be a tad underdressed occurred to him only in that moment. Too late for him to do anything about it: worrying would be pointless.

Seconds dragging on as he waited, anxiety balling up in the pit of his stomach. In on four, he reminded himself, falling into the familiar breathing exercise, out on ten.

"Come in," Queenie called out just loud enough for Peter to hear. The familiarity of her voice hitting him hard, something physical, solid, throwing itself at his chest and knocking the breath from his lungs. Even after all this time. Honey in the sun and chocolate melting on a summer's day, sweaters out of the dryer and sandpaper freshly used; warmth and strength. All that it took for the young man to lose any sense of the nervousness that had clouded his mind, a boa constrictor wound tight around him loosening. Allowing him to breathe.

Pushing the door gently open, Peter forced himself to not run inside. Closing the door quietly behind him, he immediately stepped into the pair of strong arms held open wide, waiting to envelope him in their warm embrace. The best greeting he could ever have asked for.

Everything about Queenie was familiar; familiar scent, familiar touch, familiarity burning away at everything that could possibly keep him on edge.

"Sweetheart," Queenie said, holding Peter out at arms length, firm hands clasping at his upper arms. Her sharp blue eyes raked over him, appraising. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too," he agreed, smiling genuinely.

Firmly placed walls that he had built, breaking and falling around him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Entire face crumbling for only a second, a second too long.

"Of course it is. Come in, come in. Sit down, let's talk," she said, letting go of him as she ushered him into her large office, leading him to take a seat across from her expansive desk, glass-topped like almost every other table in the building.

Instantly, they fell into an easy exchange of banter, talking, catching up on the years that had too quickly passed between them. The years that had undoubtedly shaped them, changed them, changed everybody.

Marriages, divorces, children and pets. Conversations you had when you avoided the truth. When you avoided the darkness circling at the edges of your life.

"What's going on, Pete?" Queenie asked, leaning in towards him, clasped hands laid out on the table between them. She held Peter's gaze knowingly, "As much as I'd love to imagine, I know you aren't here just to visit me. So, what's going on?"  
She whispered conspiratorially, the depths of her concern minimally hidden behind a smile, leaning in closer to him, "You don't need the money, do you? What happened to that sexy bundle of money that you've been taking to bed?"

He chuckled at her usual onslaught of questions, giving himself ample time to process each one before he could even think about answering.

If that implication had come from anybody else— that he was simply using Harry for his money, and rumoured, but true, talents in bed— he would have been incensed. Furious. But, coming from Queenie, he didn't in the least mind.

"I don't need the money," Peter reassured her, bristling at the lie naturally tumbling from his mouth, pausing to run his tongue over his sharp teeth, straightened years ago. "I just..." he regretted not practicing his story beforehand, the boiling anxiety too strong for him to concentrate on anything else, "Just really need the freedom, Queenie, need this security for a few months. This place— this place is my home. It always has been."

He felt her deep, ocean blue eyes on him, the calculating gaze running over Peter. A clear sensation, knowing as it fell over him without him having to look her way. Simultaneously, Peter hoped that she wouldn't see through his guise, and that she would.  
  
Meeting her gaze full-on, long lashes framing her small eyes, Peter smiled. He knew, from experience, the faraway look in her eyes as she settled into deep thought.

"You remember what I said to you when you first left?" she asked, reaching out to lightly settle the tips of her fingers on the back of Peter's hand; the only visible parts of her that really alluded to her age. Staring intensely into Peter's eyes, her own brimming with depthless emotion stronger than any lacing her words. "There will always be a place for you here. However long you need to stay, we'd be happy to have you."

He breathed out a sigh of relief, a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Smiling at her appreciatively as she clasped his hand in hers, squeezed one last time and withdrew. Peter, overflowing with gratitude, was silenced with a sharp look just as he was about to thank her.

Quick after that, they drew up a contract for Peter. Working with a less rigorous schedule than the other's, Queenie put him down for four nights out of the seven. He could already feel the tension leave his body, so wound tight with frustration that even the smallest of things easily set him off. The prospect of returning to the club left him lighter than he had been in months.

  
._._._.

  
Stuffing his hands deep into the silk lined coat pockets, fingering the soft material thoughtlessly between his thumb and forefinger as he began his leisurely walk home. To his and Harry's shared penthouse apartments.

This city was his home, these streets a much a part of Peter as anything else. A living, breathing organism that grew with and around Peter. Here he had learnt to live, here he had flourished. He breathed in deeply, a small smile playing on his lips at the familiar smell of the city; smoke, dirt and grime mixing not all to unpleasantly with wafting aromas from bakeries and restaurants.

Breaking away from the large crowd, commuters all moving as one, single-minded living beast, Peter made his way down an alleyway that, except for the rats scuttling out of sight, stood empty. He preferred to take this route home— it was quieter, giving him a chance to think.

From behind him he heard the unmistakable sound of light footsteps, quick in their attempt to be discreet. He had lived in this city long enough to have established a sixth sense for danger; a sixth sense that was now going off. A blaring siren in his mind. An uncomfortable shiver up his spine, a sharp ringing in his ears. Almost imperceptibly, he quickened his step, rushing to exit the extended length of the alley.

Peter tightened his hands, buried deep in his pockets, into fists. What he was preparing for himself for, he didn't know. What he did know was that if he didn't get out of the alley in time, he was more than ready to swing at any moments notice. He risked an abrupt glance over his shoulder, enough to see the pair of advancing figures; menacing, hidden in shadow. Not caring for discretion he quickened his pace, nearing a run.

"Where ya goin', pretty boy?" Whipping his head back around, forward, at the sound of the lilting voice, fast enough to hurt himself terribly, Peter's breath quickened. His path blocked by two figures, menacing grins painting their faces. Nowhere for him to run now; trapped. Boxed in between the two in front of him and the three slowly advancing from behind him.

"Yeah, pretty boy," the shorter of the two echoed, running a hand through an unruly lock of hair obscuring pointedly feminine features, "Where are you going?"

Startled, silent, mouth dry, eyes wide with fear. Taking in deep shallow breaths, chest rising and falling with the racing of his heart. The two standing before Peter moved closer, with each step they took forward Peter took a step back. Walking back, path blocked by the firm wall of bodies not allowing him to pass.

"Cat got your tongue, pretty boy?" came a gravelly voice from directly behind him, warm breath ghosting over Peter's skin, near his ear. The voice followed by a pair of large hands tightening around Peter's upper arms, pushing him forward only rough for the boy to stumble.

"Yeah, pretty boy," a chorus, a cacophony of repetition. "Cat got your tongue?"

Every snarky reply he was usually loaded with, every sarcastic comment that had ever gotten him in and out of countless situations, every skillful remark gone. Disappeared. Laying leaden on his tongue, buried by anxious surprise. Sure as hell, Peter could fight his way out of this, but it was going to be far from a classy, comedic affair.

"What do you want?" Peter asked them steadily. Batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly, he said the first, stupid thing that came to mind, "You like what you see?"

Far from funny, it did warrant him a throaty snort from the taller of the thugs standing in front of him. The way the other's looked to him consistently when he spoke, waiting for his abject approval, it was clear that he was the one holding charge.

Hands landed on Peter's back, the shove much more violent than before. Quiet, angry muttering from the same deep voice that had called him out earlier— "Want me to mess 'im up, Ray? Lemme mess 'im up"— voice as rough and scratchy as his calloused hands.

"Maybe I do, pretty boy. Maybe I do," the boy in charge— Ray— murmured, raking his eyes over Peter, ignoring his friends enraged question. He reached out to grab hold of the stricken man standing shock-still in the middle of the chaos, grabbing ahold of the thick collar of his coat and pulling him close. Bringing their faces together, almost nose to nose, digging the fingers of his free hand into the back of Peter's slender neck, he lowered his voice menacingly, hot breath rolling over the other man's face, "But you've done somethin' to us. Somethin' that we want fixed."

"I don't think anything could fix you," he said on impulse, shooting Ray a cocky grin, shaking. He knew he wasn't making much sense, if any sense at all. The flash in Ray's eyes a telltale sign that he was just as confused as Peter was. His hand tightened around the back of Peter's neck, squeezed. Peter knew that tomorrow he would have dark bruises.

He struggled at the hold, pushing back against Ray's chest, fists having fallen from the confinements of the pockets ages ago. Shoved him away violently into the crowd of his friends.

"Look, pretty boy," the boy growled, anger flashing across his face, burning behind hooded eyes. Pouncing on Peter, grabbed onto him again, lowered his voice, "'Cause of what ya did last week, our little sister is in the slammer."

"Slammer? Seriously? What is this, the 80s?" Peter asked. Hands flailing, caught by surprise as he was slammed hard against the brick wall; crumbling, but sturdy. Still stunned he met street-hardened knuckles with the side of his face. "Oh, that's going to bruise." He spat, instantly regretting it the moment that the fist came back down against his cheek.

Each successive punch that landed on Peter met with loud, discordant yelling.

"You think this is a joke, pretty boy?"the other boy asked, never yelling but voice low and sending shivers up Peter's back.

Strong hand fisted in Peter's shirt, he slammed the boy against the wall, pulled his free arm back to land a punch in Peter's stomach— Ray's arm holding him tight against the wall, the only thing keeping Peter from doubling over completely.

A cough wracked through Peter's body, a fine line of blood trickling down his chin. Eyes slipping shut, the left one, he knew from experience, would be kissed with a purple bruise for ages.

He kicked out at Ray with every last bit of strength he could muster, a last ditch attempt at defending himself. The kick landing expertly, satisfactorily against barely covered shin. The action working only in angering the boy, angering the friends surrounding them. Eliciting unmelodious jeers, hands appearing from nowhere to tear at Peter's flesh.

Watching as Ray pulled his arm back to throw another punch, aimed either at Peter's face or Peter's stomach, he tensed his body. Closed his eyes and prepared for the punch to land, to knock the wind out of his lungs.

"Well, this isn't very nice." Peter's eyes shot open, stinging at the sudden movement. Immediately he recognized the red and black clad man, holding Ray's arm back at the elbow— catching him mid-punch.

The arm around his chest slackened, then was gone altogether. Peter, sliding down the wall once the support of the thug leader's arm was gone, landed on the littered cement floor with a thud.

Through the slits of his eyes, he watched as the masked man— Deadpool, if he remembered correctly— threw around the members of the gang. All of them seeming about Peter's own age, one or two maybe even younger. Not drastically hurting any of them, landing a few punches on Ray: enough that he'd soon be matching Peter, bruise for bruise. Ears ringing loudly he heard muffled snippets of the masked man's one-liners, catching only the odd word.

"Hey, no sleeping in the alley," Deadpool said, tapping Peter repeatedly on the top of his head until the young man's eyes cracked open. "Someone as pretty as you, in a dump like this? You'd be ravaged in moments."

Peter spat out a small glob of blood with another body-wracking cough, wiping a eerily still hand across his mouth as he balanced all his weight against the wall and struggled to stand.

"I didn't need your help," he shot at Deadpool, glaring at the arm that snaked around Peter's waist and helped to keep him steady, immediately realizing how ungrateful he sounded.

Shrugging, Deadpool loosened his arm from around Peter. Keeping himself close in case the younger man needed his help. Drawing his brows together in a frown Deadpool gazed at Peter; Peter, incredibly surprised at how easy it was to read the man's expressions even through the mask

"Yeah, you really didn't need my help getting beat up by some assholes."

Straightening himself up, Peter glanced at Deadpool and smirked. "I don't think you're allowed to call kids assholes."

"I knew you were a stickler for the rules!" Deadpool yelled, pinching Peter's cheek playfully and laughing. "It's adorable. I won't call those assholes _assholes_ if you don't want me to."

Peter slapped away his hand, frowning. "Stop that. How'd you even find me anyways?"

The eyes of his mask widening dramatically, Deadpool waved a dismissive hand between them and said, the picture of forced nonchalance, "Oh, you know. I was in the neighbourhood."

Quirking an eyebrow the other man's way, Peter shrugged. The movement, as slow as it was, sending a stab of pain through him and causing him to wince. "Well, okay..." he swallowed down his sharp, shallow breaths, murmuring instead, "You seem to always be in the neighbourhood."

"I go wherever help is needed, ma'am," Deadpool threw on a deep southern accent, bending forward to tip his imaginary hat.

Despite himself, Peter laughed. "So..." he said, pointing to the exit of the alley, "I really should get going."

He wondered for a second if he should stop by the hospital, or even the small doctors office situated a block away from his apartment. Mentally ticking off items on a list, doing a personal check-up, he didn't deem it necessary. As high as the possibility of a concussion was, he couldn't chance a visit. The fees for a consult alone would be astronomical.

"Let me walk you home," Deadpool offered, not a question. The deep clarity of his voice cutting through to Peter.

"Thanks for helping me out and everything, but I can make it home fine on my own," Peter said, letting him down as easy as he could. As thankful as he was for the man's help, he wasn't so sure about showing the heavily weapon-clad stranger his and Harry's home; the concept of stranger danger still strongly engrained in Peter's mind.

Hands buried in his pockets once again, he took a step back and threw a dazzling, lopsided smile at Deadpool. Turning his back on the man, he let out a shaky sigh of relief. All he needed now was to head home to his loving, beautiful, waiting boyfriend and curl up beside him. Settle into a warm hug with a large mug of coffee and let the day drain away.

Breathing in a deep sigh of relief, already starting to calm down the nearer he got to exiting the alley. Quick footsteps sounded from behind him, running.

"I've thought of it," Deadpool said, catching up with Peter and keeping pace with him easily, "Wow, you walk slow. What was I saying? Oh, right." He snapped his fingers dramatically. "I've thought of it, and I don't think you should walk home alone."

"And why is that?" Peter asked, not slowing his pace.

"Those kids might come after you again," Wade pointed out. "And who knows what could happen without your knight in bright red spandex standing by your side?"

Peter shrugged, laughing easily despite himself, "I can take care of myself, Deadpool. You can be somebody else's knight in skintight armour."

"Ooh, skintight," Deadpool mimicked, raising his voice into a high shrill tone, running gloved hands down his sides, over the suit, "You noticed."

Carding a hand through the dark hair flopping into his face, Peter shook his head slightly. A smile played at the corner of his lips, mouth only slightly upturned. As apprehensive as he was about the stranger, Deadpool had just helped Peter out of a tough situation. And, admittedly, he was great company; making Peter smile easily with his quick humour.

He drew his coat tight around himself, feeling the stranger— the stranger who had rescued him, Peter's mind tried to appease— only focus his eyes more on Peter's form hidden beneath the thick layer of fabric.

Allowing himself only a moment longer to think, he gave in, albeit reluctantly, any longer than that second of thought and he would not have done anything of the sort, nodding at Deadpool before he walked out of the seemingly never-ending alley. Gasping in a breath of air, far from fresh but better that the rank cloud of gas that gathered like a wall in the alleys, he settled into having a quiet walk with the taller man beside him. Company is good for the soul, and all that.

When he was occupied, Peter was different. If he were handed a complex job or a task not only would he do it, he would shine. But, this? Upholding a conversation? He never had been truly great with that. He walked slowly, strolling at a steady pace as he usually did. Both, basking in the rare moment of not having to rush, and being physically unable to do so for the pain shooting through his body.  
The thought came to Peter that this was not the ideal time to dawdle: maybe they should pick up the pace, get Peter home as soon as possible and end what was growing to be only more increasing in uncomfortability as the minutes dragged.

With the stifling idea of how exactly he would speak to this man, did Peter begin to feel regret as it creeped up on him. Aunt May in her stern, caring way raising an eyebrow at him and scolding, "Peter. How many times have I told you about strangers? How many times have you learnt about stranger danger?"

He almost smacked himself across the forehead, a facepalm hard enough to paint a strong crimson handprint across his skin. Peter should have known that his inability to think a situation all the way through would be what got him killed.

Mimicking Aunt May in his mind he scolded himself. _Should have just listened to your first instinct Peter. You idiot._  
Because he should have. Instead, he had given in and allowed this man to trail him home. To see where he lived. Where he and _Harry_  lived. He was honestly the stupidest person he knew.

"Uh, is everything alright over there?" Deadpool asked Peter, staring at him with such ferocity that he must have been staring at Peter for some time. Must have seen fragments of Peter's emotions play across his face as he carried out the one-sided internal argument. The man's confusion made apparent by the crease in his mask between his eyes, his nose bridge, his eyes drawn together.

Even though Peter couldn't see it entirely, he could tell exactly when the smirk cut across Deadpool's face. It's the exact moment when, embarrassment overtaking him, heat rises in Peter's face, blazes across his fair skin. The heat rises and with it, Peter knows without having to see himself, that it brings along a bright red blush of embarrassment. A blush born from having eyes trained intensely on him. A blush that, as much as he wills it to disappear, will not.

"You look like you've been caught in the middle of having some very dirty thoughts," Deadpool teased. Peter not having to even look at him to know that underneath his mask his eyebrows were dancing suggestively.

Peter scoffed, rolled his eyes. "Please. With you here? I couldn't have a dirty thought if I tried." A reflex action, talking back, snark. Where it comes from now, he didn't know. Where it had disappeared to earlier, he wished he could know.

"Oh!" Deadpool raised a hand to grasp at his heart, staggering as if he had just been injured. Shot in the chest. "You're hitting me right in the heart. I may never love again."

"I bet there's thousands of damsels in distress who are crying at that news," Peter stated dryly, rolling his eyes.

"You mean," Deadpool said around a smile, catching up with Peter, "Damsel in distress... like you."

"Ha ha," he deadpanned, "Damsels wish that they were me."

Being pushed along with the crowd at the edge of the sidewalk, traffic light already green when Peter and Deadpool stopped there, gathering around Peter and moving as one to cross over onto the other side of the the road, Peter wondered if he and Deadpool would be separated. He hoped so.

"Of course, they do," Deadpool continued as if they weren't just forcibly pulled apart by a mob, rushing, pushing away at anyone who stood in the way, not at all caring for the well-being of others; as if their conversation had not just been cut off abruptly. He slipped an arm around Peter's shoulders and leaned in close to him, lips against his ear. Uncomfortably close. "I know plenty of damsels who would kill to have an ass like yours."

Once again, despite himself he felt the growing heat, the bright colouring of his cheeks. He inched out from under the hold, hands automatically dropping to pull his coat around himself. Covering his body from the man's staring eyes.

 _Stranger danger. Stranger danger_ , his mind wailed, a constant siren warning him. Begging. Pleading. Praying that he would do the obvious thing— the smart thing— and excuse himself politely. Less than politely, if the situation so called for it.  
Yet still he ignored it, pushed it far away in favour of the tinnier voice: a mere whisper in the back of his mind urging him to stay. Intrigued.

  
._._._.

  
"I'm home," Peter called, unwrapping the slim scarf from around his neck, already all thoughts of the strange man who had accompanied him home pushed to the back of his mind. Throwing the dark grey scarf and matching coat over one of the gold hooks behind the door, he walked further into the expansive apartment.

Hushed voices came from the lounge, the familiar voices of the pair of early evening radio presenters that always played in the apartment. Welcoming Peter home.  
He stepped out of his shoes, socked feet landing comfortably against the heated floor. As quietly as he could, Peter sneaked towards the bathroom; hoping for few minutes to clean himself up before Harry could see the full brunt of what had happened.

A soft hand landed on his shoulder, startling Peter. Involuntarily, he stiffened. The last thing that he wanted was for Harry to see him like this— bleeding, bruising, ugly. The last thing that he wanted was to cause Harry distress. Harry, a ghost, footsteps not even making a sound on the hardwood floor as he sneaked up behind Peter, stopped him with a bare touch before wounding his arms tight around Peter's waist, pressing unintentionally against raw skin.

"I missed you," Harry murmured, breath warm against Peter's neck, tickling the other man's supple skin.

Three words, and the tension held in Peter's shoulders, his spine, released. He let out a deep breath and leaned back against Harry, reveling in the warmth that he radiated.

"I missed you, too," Peter replied, voice an equal murmur, eyes slipping shut.

"I missed you more, trust me," Harry said with a smile. A smile that Peter could hear, could intimately feel against his nape. More of that warmth that Harry radiated.

Peter shook his head, his own smile growing on his face. Revealing his pair of deep set dimples. As much as he didn't want to disturb this moment— peaceful, quiet, the two of them calmly embracing— he needed to slip into the bathroom. Dab away at the blood, cover as much as he could with concealer and foundation. Save Harry the burden of seeing him hurt.

Intertwining his fingers with Harry's resting flat against his stomach, calloused tips rubbing against soft ones, he tugged. The sweet whine escaping from Harry as he clasped his hands tighter the more that Peter tried to slip away.

Chuckle rumbling low through Peter, he pulled gently at his hands. "I gotta pee, Har."

"Don't care," he mumbled, pulling Peter closer for a second before reluctantly letting him go just a bit. "Why's it seem like you're trying to get away from me?"

"Probably 'cause I'm trying to get away from you."

A hand tightened around his wrist, an anchor keeping Peter steadily in place, stopping him from walking away. Harry's fingers squeezed lightly into the slim wrist, pressing against the bone, feeling Peter's pulse stronger than his own.

Peter stilled at the regained contact, at Harry widening the distant between them just so that he could tiptoe around from behind Peter to stand in front of him. Not once letting go, if anything only holding on tighter. Long fingers of his left hand against Peter's right wrist.

Eyes dancing over Peter's face— bust lip dusted with blood, purple flowers blooming over his left eye and cheek, long parallel slits across his forehead— Harry inhaled sharply. Widened eyes, horror, a burgeoning flower as he tried to meet Peter's eyes. Peter, refusing to do so. Deep brown eyes averting, glancing away from Harry and staring at a place beyond Harry's thick head of hair.

"Pete?" Harry dragged out his name, stricken, voice catching in his throat. Slowly he reached out with the hand not holding onto Peter, nimble fingers brushing tentatively against the bruise painted across the left of his high cheekbones. He cleared his throat and tried again, "What happened to you?"

Meeting Harry's eyes with his own, Peter forced a smile. The longer he looked into the lucid depths across from him, chocolate pools of warmth and love that, in all the years of staring into them, Peter had never tired from looking into them and knew that he never would, the more the smile seemed to grow real.

He twisted his fingers through Harry's, pulling his shaking hand away from the bruised skin of his face, pressing the fair hand against Peter's own lips. Planting a slow succession of kisses against Harry's slim fingers, soft, never seeing a day of hard labour in his life, against the smooth palm, against the inside of his wrist, lightly scarred. Breathing in Harry's light vanilla smell, more fragrant than any girl Peter had had the pleasure of being with. Favouring his taste. Drowning in him.

Did words exist to explain how content he was? Peter couldn't imagine so.

"I'm okay, Har. I—" he paused, unsure of what to say. The truth burning a hole on his tongue.

"You what?" Harry asked sharply, eyebrow quirking as he stared into Peter's eyes. Quietly mocking, sarcastic, "You fell against a door? Walked into a horse?"

"No— Wait, what? A _horse_? What do you think I spend my day doing?"

"I don't know!" Harry exclaimed, wrenching his hand out of Peter's to throw his arms in the air in an act of exasperation. "I just. A horse, ya know. It was the first thing that came to mind!"

"Sure," he dragged out the vowel, laughing and playfully pushing at Harry. Peter lowered his voice seriously and stared into the other man's eyes, taking a deep breath before he said, "But if you have something to tell me, now would be the best time.

"Yeah, because I have a tonne of embarrassing stories about me walking into horses."

Laughing, teeth showing white in the soft lights of the apartment automatically turning on as it grew nearer to dark outside. "I knew it," he leaned forward to kiss Harry lightly, silencing him from saying whatever he was about to, "And I'd love to hear that story but I do really have to pee."

"TMI, Parker," Harry said, raising his voice a few notes higher in an off mimicry of the teenage girls he had seen in the Halloween movies frequently gracing TV.

Patting Harry on the butt as Peter slipped past him and towards the spacious bathroom, shooting Harry a full smile over his shoulder at the sound of the quiet gasp falling from the man's lips. Light and breathy. Shooting straight through to Peter's head; Peter's drug of choice.

  
._._._.

  
Rubbing the fluffy white towel through his wet hair, twisting the thick locks of dark brown hair into spikes. Hair, still drying and closer to black than brown, curling at the base of his neck, surrounding his head like a halo. He watched Harry, seated cross-legged in the middle of the wide bed, dark clothes contrasting with the white bedspread. Lips curling into a sad smile at the sight of him, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over the medium-sized suitcase that lay opened in front of him, barely filled. Harry, lithe hands folding the few pieces of clothing that he would be taking.

Peter dropped the towel, completely soaked through, onto the floor at the foot of the bed. Chuckling at the sharp look that Harry threw his way, hating it every time that Peter would do that.

Throwing himself across the bed, bouncing lightly against the soft, strong mattress. His head buried into the small pile of Harry's shirts gathered where Peter's pillow was usually supposed to lay.  
Curly hair spread against the clothes, framing his face, Peter turned to take in the sheer beauty of Harry's profile. The sharp, sleek line of his nose, plump and pink lips, solid jaw.

"It's for the best," Harry said, startling Peter out of his reverie. His hands steady, clutching onto an olive green t-shirt halfway between folding it. Peter blinked up at him, what he meant as 'being for the best not' being made clear. "This," Harry muttered, gesturing ambiguously between them. "Me. Leaving for awhile."

Harry meant _Chance,_  a rehab and treatment center that prided themselves on being able to help with disorders and conditions of all kinds. Marketing themselves as a safe space, a haven. Recommended to them by the an experimental therapist.  
Peter had offered support; never encouragement, never anything that would persuade Harry to go of anything but his own accord. He had held hands, and kissed lips, and gave into every one of Harry's whims and requests. Had offered everything he could; not once did it seem that Harry was even remotely doubtful.

He smiled up at the hunched over man, slowly tracing his index finger over Harry's thigh, the length of his forearm and making his way to the man's tightly clenched hand. Twining their fingers together.

"You having second thoughts, Har?" Peter asked, going for jovial but falling at concerned. "You—"

"Don't have to do it if I don't want to?" Harry completed Peter's sentence, voice brash, uncharacteristically harsh. Squeezing Peter's fingers hard. "Sure you say that, but do you mean it, Pete?"

"Of course, I do," Peter said, struggling to sit on the bed. Mirroring Harry's position, eyes raking over his form, taking in the furrow in his brow, the hard line of his set jaw. "Where's this coming from?"

Untangling his fingers from Peter's, Harry ran tired hands through a thick head of hair. His chest rising and falling, nose flaring, as he struggled to control his breathing.

"I don't know. I don't know!" Harry let out a strangled laugh, falling backwards onto the bed. Laying with his legs still crossed, tangled in the piles, eyes slipping close for a split second before snapping open to take Peter in. "I don't know, Pete. I'm stressed out about tomorrow. Leaving. Being away from you. Not being able to support you. I keep imagining you running off with some older, richer... more mentally stable man. And it's stupid, but I can't help it."

"You're not stupid, love," smiling, Peter ran a hand through Harry's hair, whispered. "Stressed, maybe. Overreacting, definitely. But, stupid? Not today."

Harry laughed, sounding far less strangled than moments ago. Strained, still, but less strangled. He met Peter's eyes and smiled, running his bottom lip between his teeth.

"So you won't go running off with the next rich Texan that comes around?"

"Hmm... Rich Texan, you say?"

Pulling Peter down to lay beside him, Harry laughed. The warmth of his ghosting over the front of Peter's face. Over his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Close to Peter; never too close. A careful stroke.  
He slid an arm around Peter's waist, staring into his boyfriend's gleaming eyes. Eyes, framed by their thick, long lines of eyelashes, telling a story far greater than any words he could ever utter: genuine fear, concern, reluctance, doubt.

Curling a hand around Harry's face, caressing him as lightly as if he were the one that were covered in bruises, Peter leaned in for a soft kiss. Saying with his lips what he could not. Saying with his lips what he hoped would quell the turmoil in Harry.

"You really don't have to do this, okay?" he whispered against Harry's lips. "If you don't want to. It's okay. We're okay."

"But, what if it works?" Harry asked, evident the doubt and confusion that riddled him. "What if this— this therapy, or whatever the hell they do... What if it works? Works even a little bit?"

Pressed nose to nose, front to front, it would be nearly impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Both of Peter's hands lost in the curls of Harry's hair.

"I can see that the doubt monster is getting into your pants again."

"What— Peter, I'm serious."

"So am I."

Harry shot him an incredulous look, pulling away and craning his neck to look up at Peter. "You're never serious about anything."

"I'm serious about this. About you. I will be the last person to go running off, rich Texan or not, I swear it."

"You swear it? Peter Benjamin Parker, if you're going to swear it you better pull out all the stops. Hand over heart, Holy Bible kinda stuff. No shortcuts."

Elaborately clearing his throat, Peter untangled his left hand from the mass of dark curls and held it up, palm facing towards the man underneath him. He tamed his grin with difficulty, forcing it into a deep scowl that etched angry lines around the corners of his eyes, his mouth.  
Slowly he placed his hand over his heart, the steady thumping beating out a steady staccato against his ribs, his hand.

Staring into Harry's face, trying not to allow himself to fall under the spell that Harry was casting over him with his devilish, stunning smile.

As solemnly as he could muster, Peter said, "I, Peter Benjamin Parker—"

"Enternal lover and boyfriend of Harry Osborn, the sexiest and smartest man I know," Harry interjected.

"Lover before boyfriend? I can see what you really think of me," Peter murmured, deepening his scowl. "Not even life partner, or significant annoyance."

"Say it," Harry insisted, poking lightly at Peter's stomach. "Will it make everything better if I say you're the best lover I've ever had?"

Peter pretended to think about it, looking off into the distance dramatically, as if in deep thought. His scowl almost breaking at another feather light touch, Harry tickling against his ribs instead of poking as he had earlier done.  
Half-heartedly he swatted his boyfriend's hand away, nodded in agreement with Harry: he would accept lover, if it meant he was the best that Harry had ever been with. Conveniently, he chose to ignore that they had been together since their early teens, both seventeen. Neither of them had that many lovers to compare each other to.

Almost verbatim, he repeated back to Harry everything he wanted to wanted to hear from Peter. "And I swear to not run off with anyone, even if they are super rich," he added in the end, drawing a small cross over his heart and leaning in to plant a soft kiss on the tip of Harry's nose.

"We forgot the Bible," Harry said, never satisfied with anything.

"Do we even have a Bible?"

Shoulders bunching slightly, Harry shrugged. His face twisting comically and really breaking Peter's stoic façade, the mere sight of his lips twisted down and his eyes halfway between being screwed close and widened larger than usual enough to cause Peter to bark with laughter.

Laughing himself, too, Harry curled his hands at the base of Peter's neck. His fingers clasped together, fingertips brushing lightly against the damp tendrils of hair that curled stubbornly. Laughing against each other's lips, into each other's mouths, they kissed.

Whatever Harry was worrying about, Peter would be there for him. He was there for the deep, serious conversations. He was there for the joking around and teasing, for making Harry laugh instead of cry, for kissing away the pain. Peter was there for whatever Harry wanted. Peter was there for Harry.

Hesitantly, Peter pulled away from the kiss, slowly growing more heated.

"Come on, let's get you packed."

"So eager to get rid of me, Parker."

"Boo, hiss, always seeing through my evil, evil plans," Peter cried, separating himself from Harry to settle into a sitting position next to the open bag. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it down over where it had ridden up, covering his torso.

"God, you're such a dork," Harry said, groaning into his hands as he covered his face, "I'm so ashamed. What do I even see in you?"

"Good looks and charm. Apparently, I'm also great in bed."

Harry chuckled, as he followed Peter's lead and pulled himself up to sit beside his boyfriend.

The night passed in much the same way; light bantering and teasing, laughter filling their room, sharing sweet kisses, fingers brushing together, touching each other as much as possible. Preparing for their inevitable separation.

Hours later, Harry's suitcase packed and propped just outside their bedroom door, in the hallway, neither of them able to have it in the room with them. Without having to say it, they knew that they wouldn't be able to sleep if they could see it. Too painful a reminder of what was to come.

"Come here, _mon chérie_ ," Peter murmured in an over exaggerated French accent,  voice husky with sleep, reaching out to hold onto Harry. To grab onto him, and pull him underneath the blankets. Spend the rest of the night laying together.

The bedside clock reading almost two in the morning, they'd have barely four hours of sleep before they had to wake up.

The lights in the bedroom turned intimately low, the shimmering light of the moon dancing through the large clear windows that were covered by only a thin lace curtain. Moonlight, spotlighting the men as they lay together, curled underneath thin white sheets. Holding each other.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about as funny as a safety pin, so excuse me for staying away from the humor
> 
> Anyways,,, Parksborn,,, am I right
> 
> ._._._.
> 
> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


	3. Time Won't Be Enough To Make You Even Fall In Love With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: ma chérie by palaye royale

How much like peeping did it still feel like? Did Wade's skin crawl, itch, burn with embarrassment? With guilt?

How much like invading Peter's sanctity and his privacy?

With all that he had seen— the barest moments of intimacy, the slightest of sensual episodes shared between the lovers— the guilt had gradually began to fade.

To his own defense, his visits were far rarer than they could have been: hardly twice a week when what he longed most for was to return every day.

Light spots of blood— not his own, but belonging to any one of the the teenaged thugs he had found cornering Peter— speckled the knuckles of Deadpool's suit. He ignored it, the crimson not noticeable against the backdrop of red.

Seated astraddle the grotesque gargoyle that stood directly across from Peter and Harry's room, he smiled to himself.

Not only had he protected the younger man, but he had _saved_ him. If words existed to describe the depths of just how that fact awoke him, set his soul on fire with boundless joy, Wade did not have knowledge of them; words beyond simply good, or merely great.

Steadily, night fell on the never resting city. With the slowly darkening skies, each of the rooms in the expansive apartment across from Deadpool seemed to light up automatically.

Hours that Wade did not mind waiting, passed.

Movement in the room, a door sliding open smoothly, drew Wade's eye, caught his attention; Peter and Harry, laughing as they graced their way into the room. Stumbling slightly, hips knocking gently against each other.

Barely fifteen minutes into them being together, Wade forcefully averted his gaze. It was too much— to see and not be able to touch. Dragging his eyes back to the room, he watched Peter as he slid smoothly into the adjoined bathroom and as Harry began to pack a large suitcase.

Another half hour passed before Peter, body glistening with beads of water, stepped into the room and curled into bed beside Harry.

The delicately unfolding scene, far more intimate than anything else Wade had ever witnessed between them. Had, in fact, ever witnessed before.

His arms tingled where he could imagine Peter lightly holding onto him, his long fingers pressed against heated bare skin. Arms and chest buzzed from where he could feel the solidity of Peter's weight rested heavily against him.

His entire body itched to know if reality could hold a candle, a semblance, to the extremes of his imagination.

In a heartbeat, he would have given anything to trade places with Harry.

Watching Peter— freshly showered and hair still dazzling with droplets of water, light grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, too short, darker grey shirt— the burning longing that had been a physical part of Deadpool for weeks took him over.  
Clawed at his chest, bit at him, left him breathless.

 _Nothing_. _Nothing_ compared to the aching desire that he drowned in whenever he so much as glanced at Peter.  
The realization of the depth of his emotions hit him at full force. The realization chipped away at any last lingering illusion that the feelings would pass.

Eyes focused on the younger man, he couldn't bring himself to look away.

Jealousy tore at his chest at the sight of Peter sidling up to Harry. Burning, all-consuming jealousy that blazed through Wade without any warning.

He continued to watch, despite himself— torture, his favourite kind. The delicate intimacy of the moment unfolding before him— sweet kisses, conversations, hands intertwining— nothing like the passionate sex he had witnessed on various other occasions.  
  
Anger flashed and faded. Embarrassment burned at his skin, heated up his face beneath the tight mask. Shame burning away at him, Wade dropped himself from the gargoyle. Slinked off into the night without so much as a backwards glance.

  
._._._.

  
Wade fell into his apartment with a heavy thump, throwing the torn, bloodstained remnants of his suit across the floor. Exhaustion wasted away at him after three days too many spent on a mission abroad; Tokyo needed him, who was he to deny them his help.

Stripped of his suit, he wandered naked through the expansive apartment. Finding his way through to his kitchen, Wade poured a large bowl of brightly coloured cereal, and even brighter marshmallows, for himself— the bowl filled right to the brim.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, he spooned down the sugary treat.

When he took time away for missions he tried his hardest to push thoughts of Peter to the furthermost corners of his mind. If he allowed himself to fall into thinking about Peter— little things like the darkness of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the reach of his fingertips, the melodic beauty of his voice that rang in Wade's head for days afterwards like a song— he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else. The mission would be the least important thing on the merc's mind.

He settled into the utter peacefulness of the early afternoon. The soft sunlight filtering through the open windows and the light breeze gently blowing apart the curtains all seemed incredibly mundane. Surprising in its sheer simplicity.

Wade's eyes slipped shut as he basked in the acute memory of Peter's face. Tipped his head back as he allowed the tension to ease from the ball in his shoulders, to flow from his body.

As good as his memory was, it would never be enough. He missed Peter. He needed to see him.

From on the counter beside him, his cellphone rang. The sharp pop tune cutting through the calmness that had enveloped the apartment.

"Wade Wilson, at your service," he answered, voice muffled around a mouthful of cereal, holding the phone between the side of his head and his muscled shoulder.

In the background, tinny through the low quality phone speaker, pulsing dance music could be heard.

"Your boy's here," Weasel said without any preamble, almost shouting into the phone, "Thought you'd like to know."

"You're right, Weasel. Oh, buddy. Oh, pal. You are so right," he sang gleefully into the phone, unable to control the smile cutting across his face.

Brash as he hung up on Weasel, Wade breezed through his apartment. Dressing in a rush, but dressing to at least leave a positive _second_ first impression.

 

  
Wade hesitated on the sidewalk outside the entrance to Sister Margaret's. That same nervousness creeped up on him, engulfed him. Doubt found its way into every single part of his being, niggled slowly at his resolve; should he leave or should he stay? Should he take the chance, the opportunity handed to him, or should he walk away?

He peeped into the bar and eyed Peter sitting at the bar counter, nursing a drink, alone. In one swift moment, Wade lowered the hood of his black hoodie to cast a shadow over his face, finally working up enough nerve to take the next step. Inhaling sharply, he pushed his way inside and headed straight for the bar, a few seats away from where Peter sat.

"Beer," Wade said to Weasel. To himself, he muttered, "You can do this. You've already spoken to him once. He liked you. You can do this." A quiet pep talk.

"Here ya go," Weasel said, sliding the glass in front of Wade and choosing to ignore his mumbling to himself, "Strongest stuff in the house— thought maybe you'd need it."

Wade nodded his thanks, swallowing down half of the pint in one gulp.

"Never seen you this nervous before," Weasel noted with a slightly raised eyebrow, taking Wade's glass and refilling it. "Your drinks aren't free, hope ya know."

Wade laughed, hollow and bemused. He refrained from gulping down the beer that had been handed to him as he had gulped down the first, and threw down a handful of crumpled notes into Weasel's outstretched hand.

With a crooked smile, he raised the glass in a mock toast, a casual salute aimed at Weasel.

He inhaled and inched his way down the bar counter, running one hand over the rough, splintered wood as he walked towards Peter. The other hand gripped firmly around his drink.

At the sight of the still empty seat beside Peter, Wade thanked every single God that he could think off. It wasn't the first time since his encounter with the man that Wade had started to not only believe in Their existence, Their power over the world, but to also profusely thank Them on an almost daily basis.

He took a shallow swig of his drink, working up the nerve to speak. He hated how nervous Peter made him, all sweaty palms and leaden tongue; as unlike himself as he ever was.

Wade glanced over at the man beside him, taking in his sullen, sour expression. Loudly, he cleared his throat.

"You look like you could use another drink," Wade said, spinning on the barstool to rest his side against the countertop and face Peter, gesturing at the man's half empty glass, at the unhappiness playing across his face.

"I'm married," Peter stated roughly, shutting Wade down without even a glance his way.

More than a little taken aback by Peter's brashness, his harshness, Wade folded in on himself. His face scrunched up into a surprised mimic of a silent gasp, eyes widened, forehead creased.

"Mazeltov," Wade cheered with a wide grin, raising his glass in the air between them and knocking back a mouthful. Hoping that that alone could recover the conversation.  
The twitch at the corner of Peter's mouth, a slight curve into a smile, allowed Wade to think that maybe it had.

"Thanks," he replied, mimicking Wade's toast and taking only a small sip of his bottled beer.

"Married, huh?" Wade began, questioning, accepting Peter's steady replying nod as permission to plough on. "You seem awfully alone for someone who's married."

Peter snorted and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, he's away for awhile, and," he paused, emphasizing his point by raising his beer slightly off the table, "I needed a drink. And, speaking of that, I'm going to need another."

Wade chuckled below his breath at Peter. He twisted around in his seat and signaled for Weasel to bring them another round.

"I haven't seen you around here before. You and your husband new to the neighbourhood?" Wade asked, leaning in minimally closer.

"No," Peter monotoned, smiling gratefully at Weasel as he dropped off their drinks and left. "No, not new to the neighbourhood. We just don't really go out much to places like this, y'know. Just don't have the time."

"Places like this?"

"You know what I mean," Peter murmured, a crooked smile dancing across his face, neither defensive nor argumentative. " _Raucous, seedy_ ," he affected, "It's not really Harry's scene."

"So, the cat's away and the mouse is playing? Making its way around town?" Wade asked with a mischievous grin and a raised eyebrow, not sure if he was making much sense.

The wicked glance that Peter threw his way could have shot fear through the heart of the hardest of men. His jaw working in quiet fury.

"I'm not that kinda boyfriend," Peter forced, eyes as hard as steel, "I'm not that kinda man."

Throwing his hands up in front of him in surrender, Wade crowed, "Woah. Sorry. Didn't mean to offend you, it's just kinda what I do best."

Peter's use of the word _boyfriend_ instead of _husband_ not escaping Wade's attention.

Peter laughed, a hollow chuckle that rumbled at the base of his throat. His eyes slipped shut for a long few seconds, eyelashes brushed against his lightly freckled cheeks.

Audibly, Wade swallowed. Flicked his tongue hungrily across his lips as he trained his eyes on Peter. The man was truly beautiful, Wade was mesmerized.

"I'm working at the club up the road—" Peter began.

"Violet Delights?" Wade interjected.

"Yep, same one," he agreed, nodded with a smile. "I just started working there a few days ago, decided I should get to know the surroundings."

"So, you're a dancer?" Wade asked, interested, raking his eyes over Peter's body slyly. "You do have the body for it."

"Um, thanks," he murmured, eyes shifting away from Wade, "But, no. I don't dance... I serve. Bartend. It's a bit of a side job."

"Sounds fun. And your main job?"

Peter wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, rubbed at the slim curve with the length of his fingers. Nervous and uncomfortable at the sudden turn of the conversation to his more personal life, that much was obvious.

"I don't really have a _main_ job," came the short reply just as Wade opened his mouth in attempt to steer conversation away from uncomfortable ground. "Haven't needed one in years."

"Oh," Wade muttered, for lack of anything else to say.

"I should get going," Peter said, scraping the legs of his chair loudly against the floor. The shrieking sound barely heard under the thrumming of the music.

"I don't even know your name," Wade called, following Peter's action and swiftly standing after him. His hand circled lightly around Peter's arm, temporarily keeping him in place, he continued in his slight affectation, "How will I find you?"

Not resisting the hold, Peter calmly wrapped his hand around Wade's and slowly peeled back each finger. He met the taller man's eyes and grinned, confidently holding out his hand to be shaken.

"You bought me a drink and you don't even know my name," Peter chastised playfully, tightening his hand briefly around Wade's.

"Bought you a drink?" Wade asked. "I didn't buy you a drink."

"Oh, you bought me a drink," Peter's steady utterance, a quiet reassurance that Wade could hear the clear undertones of laughter in.

From around Wade's own, Peter's hand slackened, retracted, fell to his side. He shuffled backwards a few steps and smiled, that dazzling smile breaking apart Wade's resolve.

Wade drank in the younger man as he turned to walk away. If he had been weaker, he would have surged forward and grabbed onto Peter. Pulled him close and kissed him without any further thought.

If he had been weaker he would have not been able to restrain himself.

A few steps away from where Peter had left Wade standing, Peter twisted slightly. Turning to face the other man, Peter grinned shyly and said, "I used to love that movie, you know. While I was growing up, there was nothing I wanted more than my own Prince Charming."

"A sugar daddy who's only interested in you for your looks and isn't satisfied with anything less than perfection?" Wade asked, seeming genuinely incredulous, his brow furrowed; questioning.

Shaking his head in disagreement, Peter snorted— the sound surprisingly attractive.

"No," he groaned. "The more... _romanticized_ Prince Charming. Handsome, caring, brave, passionate, ready to do anything for love. All of those things."

"And you found that—" Wade asked, pausing to gesture at Peter's safely pocketed left hand, where he assumed he wore his wedding band, "Found that with your husband?"

He shook his head, ran his tongue over his bottom lip thoughtfully. Shrugged. "I thought so. But who knows if you ever find it," Peter breathed out, more a deep exhale than the shallow sigh he had meant for it to be. "I should go... Stop by the club sometime— it's a _classier_ affair."

Wade smiled at Peter, nodded and murmured a promise that he would visit to the man's retreating back. Everything that he had said playing on a loop in Wade's mind.

  
._._._.

  
Black jeans, black shirt buried beneath a greying hoodie. Wade entered the club with a less than confident stride.

Pulsating music filled the room. Violet light graced over everything inside; painting bodies— barely covered, grinding, consumed by alcohol and drunken passion— in varying shades of purple.

He glanced around the room, feigning practiced nonchalance as he casted a cool eye over everyone surrounding him in his search for Peter. He walked further into the club, rigid, careful not to allow any of the patrons to bump into him. Careful not to draw more attention to himself than he already was— a strange man, covered from head-to-toe in black, and entering a building like this; with the state of the world as it was, he was bound to garner attention.

"Good evening, sir," a breezy voice greeted Wade almost as soon as he slid onto a sturdy, black stool in front of the bar. "How may I help you this evening?" The professional, businesslike greeting and question ended with an easy laugh; the melodic sound of ringing glass, of low music fighting to be heard.

Wade glanced towards the voice, immediately smiling at the sight of Peter leaning against the countertop, arms crossed before him on the table, a dark black dishcloth held tight in his hand. Smiled at Peter decked out in the standard uniform for Violet Delights' bartenders— long sleeve white shirt underneath a close-fitted black vest.

"Are you just going to ogle me all evening, or are you actually going to answer?" Peter asked, eyebrow raised questioningly. "Y'know, order something?" He prompted when all Wade did was continue to stare at him blankly.

"Oh," Wade answered, far from the smoothness he attempted to exude. A quiet laugh bubbled out from him, tinged with slight deprecation at his own awkwardness. "Give me your manliest drink. Give me your finest Cosmopolitan," he proclaimed with a level smile.

"Oh, my," Peter chuckled, "Somebody's getting rowdy tonight."

"You better believe it," he said.

Quietly, he watched Peter mix together the drink. Absorbed in the expertise and assured fluidity of each of his movements as Peter lost himself in completely concentrating on the task at hand.

The pining, sickening thoughts of days earlier dared to rear its head— always choosing the most inopportune moments to make an appearance.  
Burning want, flaming desire to be with Peter in the simplest of ways. To sleep with him, sleep beside him, wake up to him, trade sleepy kisses and never need an excuse for sex— he _wanted_ it all so terribly.

"Here you go, sir," Peter affected. "And, not to brag or anything, but I do make a mean Cosmopolitan."

He handed the glass gently over to Wade, their fingers brushing against each other innocently in the exchange. Under his breath, Wade inhaled sharply— he controlled himself, swallowed it back so that it sat heavily in his throat. Hard to ignore when his skin bristled with the lingering sensation of the touch.

"Hey," Peter prodded, landing a hesitant hand lightly on Wade's covered forearm, "You okay?"

Exhaling loudly, Wade inched out from under Peter's hold— the continued touching doing no good to calm him down. He forced a laugh and hoped it didn't sound as hysterical and forced to Peter as it sounded to his own ears.

Raising the glass to Peter in a mock toast, Wade downed the floral coloured drink.

"Hm," he hummed, choosing to continue the conversation as if nothing had happened— him and Peter were talking, there was no way he was going to jeopardize that. "Brag ahead. This is amazing."

"Aw, schucks," Peter said with a swat of his hand, mimicking Goofy, the Disney character, pretending to be shy for just a second before he laughed. He leaned forward and urged, "Go on. Praise me."

"I'd love to," Wade murmured impulsively, meeting Peter's gaze steadily.

He bit down on his tongue hard enough to have the heavy metallic taste of blood fill his mouth. Equal parts regretting that he even dared to utter it and glad that he had.  
Strongly he hoped that, with the noise that surrounded them, Peter wouldn't have noticed the depth behind what Wade said; _"I'd love to"_ — _I'd love to praise you._  
Because Wade would love to praise him, would love to spend countless hours worshipping at the temple that was Peter's body, would love to scream out blasphemy in every name he knew for God as he allowed the younger man to consume him in feverish religion.

He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped down the rest of his drink, unable to look at the man in front of him. Too long had passed— the awkward silence stretching out and stifling— for Wade to joke about it, to cover it all up.

"Wade," Peter murmured. The softness of his voice, the all too familiar sound of impending rejection, cut deeper than if Peter had begun to rant, to rave; a double-sided sword thrust into Wade's gut and harshly twisted. "I'm married. Well, not married. But I love the man that I'm with."

"I know," he replied flatly, blanching at the absolute pity in Peter's voice. Pity, the very last thing that he wanted out of their limited time spent together. He forced a smile, absently ran a calloused finger over the rim of the glass as he spoke, "I'm not expecting anything, swear it. Just really like the look of you."

Peter shrugged, seemed unsure as he rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck. "Um, thanks," he muttered, left corner of his mouth quirked slightly in an awkward smile.

"If you want me to stop looking, I'll stop," Wade offered.

"Well," Peter mused seriously, "I _am_ quite attractive. It would be a _crime_ to deprive you of looking at all of this."  
He waved a hand vaguely in his own direction, not cracking a smile at his proposition.

Loudly, Wade snorted.

"Oh, pride. That isn't attractive at all," he said, rolling his eyes and sliding his glass forward for a quick refill.

"Ouch, Wade. You're hitting me where it hurts."

"Somebody got to put you in your place, baby boy," Wade teasingly chastised.

At the sound of the easily said pet name, Peter started. Stopped from mixing together a drink to stare at Wade, to really take him in.

Under his piercing gaze, Wade fidgeted. Self-conscious enough already without being scrutinized so strongly, felt his discomfort physically grow underneath the probe of Peter's dark eyes.

"What?" he asked, voice cracking.

"Nothing," Peter rasped, catching himself. "Nothing. It's just... Just that nobody's ever called me that before. And then, like a week ago, there was this guy..." he let out a shaky exhale and smiled crookedly, ran a hand through his perfectly set hair, "It's nothing."

"You seem to have a lot of men in your life," Wade noted, wanting to steer the conversation away from anything relating to Deadpool, but also intrigued at anything that Peter had to say about Wade's alter ego.

"Well, he's not so much _a man in my life_ so much as he is a guy who keeps showing up out of nowhere," Peter explained with another shrug.

The way he kept his eyes averted, pointedly looking away from Wade, could mean only two things. Either the length of time that he had spent staring at Wade had made him realize just what he had gotten himself into, or Wade's slip of his nickname had made him realize who exactly he was talking to. Whichever way it meant, Wade knew that it wouldn't end well for him.

"Still," he insisted. "I can't imagine nobody's knocking on your door at all hours and begging you to date them."

"I guess I could say the same for you."

"Me?" Wade asked, taking a slow sip of the new drink. "I have suitors for days, you know? They write me poetry and make explicit art of me where they emphasize the _best_ parts of my anatomy, they follow me everywhere and sit outside my window crying and begging me to fuck them." Every word loaded with sarcasm.

"I'm serious," Peter said after a moment passed while he served another customer. He smiled at her warmly as she walked away then nodded subtly over Wade's shoulder. "He's been shooting dirty looks at you this whole evening."

Wade's mouth turned down into a trenchant grimace, barely glancing over his shoulder to where Peter had indicated.

"Prince," he said.

Peter nodded. "I know. We've only been working together an entire month. What'd you do, kill his puppy? Eat the last slice of his pizza?"

"Well, I ate something of his," Wade uttered.

"Whatever happened to the good ol' days when a gentleman never kissed and told?" Peter mused. "Or _ate out_ and told?"

"Since when am I a gentleman?" Wade asked. "I think he's angry 'cause I'm spending all my money on these drinks instead of stuffing them down his pants."

"Ahh," Peter mused, smothering a chuckle "So, it's you."

"What?"

"It's just nice to finally meet the guy who's had him rich and head-over-heels for weeks. You're great in bed, too, apparently," Peter said absently, staring blankly into the distance as he tried to remember what exactly Prince had said. "What's it he always says? _Oh, what soft hands. But so strong. And, yet, so soft. Mm, I never want to be touched by anybody else but him."_ Closing his eyes and tilting his head back, groaning lightly under his breath and pouring it on thick.

"I try," Wade said, face twisting smugly.

He replied quickly, swallowing as his throat grew dry and itchy. Wade tried— he _failed_ — but he tried to distract himself from the sexualized act that Peter was putting on. Tried not to think about Peter actually saying those same things about him, about Peter moaning obscenely at his touch, at Peter _wanting_ him as badly as he wanted Peter.

"Pride isn't attractive," Peter admonished, mimicking Wade smoothly and with a laugh.

"I'll have you know, I don't need to be attractive to be prideful," he said pointedly, allowing himself to wallow for a second.

Under his breath, a fire blazing behind his eyes, Peter clucked. Seemingly unappreciative.

"And I'll have you know, you are very attractive."

Again, he lost himself in staring at Peter. The fierce furrow of his brow, the downturn of his lips pulled into a frown— everything about him, the indignation with which he spoke, the anger in his eyes; it all made it seem like he meant what he said. Wade wanted to believe him. He really did.

"Cheers to that," Wade intoned flatly, raising his glass in a toast, swallowing back the rest of the sweet drink.

 

 

 


	4. Everything He Says Sounds Like Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title borrowed from 'Lipstick Covered Magnet' by The Front Bottoms

Soft white blankets, rumpled from sleep, stretched on and without limits around Peter. The luxuriant covers bunched underneath the fingertips of his hands, arms outstretched on either side of him.

He wallowed in the all encompassing emptiness of the bed.

The bed that was so much larger without Harry beside him, keeping Peter warm with the waves of heat he radiated. Absently, dark brown strands of hair flopping against the cloud-soft pillow, Peter turned his head to the side. Breathed in and imagined that remnants of Harry's familiar musk still clung to the thin material.

More than anything, Peter missed him.

He longed for simple conversations shared over dinners, interjected with brushing hands and gentle kisses.  
He longed for bodies pressed against each other in rooms bathed in darkness but for the sick illumination of the television.  
He longed for shared inside jokes and breathy laughs, for uninhibited guffaws.  
He longed for the lazy morning meeting of lips, neither deterred by the cloying breath.  
He longed for the intimacy that was territory of a long-term relationship.

Longed for it more than he longed for roaming hands and the pressure of naked bodies against each other, of bare skin on bare skin.

Burrowing his face further into the folds of the pillow, Peter allowed himself a few moments to pretend as if Harry had simply slipped out of their bed to make it to the bathroom, to freshen up for the day as Peter chose to curl up further in the entanglement of blankets. To pretend as if in any minute, any second, the other man would be walking out fresh from the shower, smiling as he sauntered toward Peter.

The sigh Peter exhaled was earth-shatteringly loud. Pulled and dragged from the depths of his shallow lungs, and expelled as if it were a task.

It was harder than he had expected it to be. He missed Harry with an intensity that had carved itself into his bones, branded him. It was furious, ever present. Nothing like either of them had been expecting.

The rehabilitation center was strict— they stood firm in the belief that minimizing contact between inpatients and _outsiders_ was the best way to go about with treatment. Visitations were limited to every few weeks or months— depending on how well the patient was progressing.

The methods they practiced weren't strange; regarded as experimental, but they seemed to work.

Peter and Harry both had gone into this with eyes wide open. As much as they had attempted to prepare themselves for the stretch of the distance, nothing compared to the actual experience. Being unable to so much as call Harry, to hear his voice, was taking a greater toll on Peter than he had expected.

At least one good thing came out of the situation— Peter had been forced to return to work and, in turn, had met Wade.  
Peter checked himself; he despised thinking of it in that way. Saying _one good thing_ as if a perk of his boyfriend being hundreds of miles away and in treatment was being able to fraternize with mysterious men who decided to hit on him in seedy bars; as if there could ever be a perk. But, Peter admitted guiltily, it _was_ a perk.

Dark eyes shone a brilliant brown and danced behind the backs of Peter's eyes; kind eyes, loving, edged with a hardness Peter was not prepared to question. Eyes that often spent hours gazing upon Peter as if there were nothing existed that was even remotely as beautiful in the world.

"You don't really say much about yourself," Wade noted, finger circling the rim of his glass, staring intensely at Peter. "Why?"

Wiping down the counter, Peter smiled, hoped the blush he could feel painting his skin was hidden in the dim light of the club. "Don't really have much to say." He shrugged, diverted. He was a pro at diverting.

"Something tells me that isn't the truth."

"Guess we gotta have more conversations," Peter said, braver than he felt, "And you can figure it out for yourself."

"I guess," Wade said, exaggerated a sigh, "If I have to." Said it with a grin, with a twinkle in his eye discernible even in dimness.

Sunlight fell over Peter in thin streaks, bathed him in warmth. A gentle smile curled Peter's lips upwards at the wisps of memory of a moment only a few nights ago, still vivid, still fresh.

He held onto it as if it were a box of precious metals, of jewels. Cherished them.

Peter exhaled quietly, slipped his eyes shut and lightened as the breath of air left his lungs. The side of his face rubbed against Harry's pillow. Dragged into sudden awareness of where he was, Peter scolded himself.

Guilt. It began its slow moving journey up the length of his body. It ate away at him.

Peter slipped out from underneath his covers. Ice seeped into his bones. Left his body cold and frozen; creaking and withering. With Herculean effort, he forced his mind away from thoughts of Wade.

Bare feet tapping against cool tiles, Peter made his way to the bathroom. Readied himself for the day; for Harry.

 

Hands rested lightly on the curve of the steering wheel. Moist fingers, coated in a fine layer of luxuriant pomegranate lotion, caressed the soft leather covering.

The familiarity of the car would have been overwhelming if Peter had not taken a few long moments to steel himself. Prepare himself for everything that was _Harry_ in the car; his cologne that clung to the expensive Italian material, his extra pair of shoes tucked underneath the passenger seat, his stationery, his ramshackle pile of books.  
The backseat where Peter had had his back pressed against on more than one occasion, the window that a mixture of panted breaths had ghosted across and steamed on dark nights in strange towns on random road trips.

Everywhere he looked in the car; overwhelmingly _Harry._

Strapped into the front seat, Peter strained not to race through the traffic-jammed roads. He drove carefully. Drove slowly; slower than he could have. Anything higher, faster, and nothing in the world would have been able to stop Peter from speeding.

But safety came first. And he doubted he could afford a ticket.

Absently, mind elsewhere, Peter tapped his fingers against the wheel in tune with the music wafting through the spacious car.

" _There now, steady love, so few come and don't go. Will you, won't you be the one I'll always know?"_ Peter sang along, breathy, melodic. " _When I'm losing my control, the city spins around. You're the only one who_ _knows,_ _you slow it down."_ He hummed along absently, waiting for a place in the song where he could jump back in.

A distraction. Perfect, if not for the dark brown eyes he envisioned in his mind; brown eyes not belonging to Harry. He cussed, bit down on the soft skin of his bottom lip, inhaled sharply.

The distinct taste of blood filled his mouth, sharp teeth driving into the pillow of flesh. A sharp metallic tang that flooded the creases and crevices, the corners of his mouth.

It was odd, in the way it brought Peter to near memories of being seated beside or standing before Wade. Strobe lights and deafening music of Violet Delights leaving behind that same bitter taste in his mouth, in the back of his throat; a ringing in his ears, stinging behind his eyes.

"You busy tomorrow night?" Wade asked.

He leaned close. Whenever he could, he chose to whisper in Peter's ear instead of attempting to shout over the noise surrounding them.

Peter wiped idly at the counter, rubbing at a spot that needed to be  cleaned as much as the club needed to make their music louder— that is to say, not at all. Peter wondered, for the flash of a second, how much like one of the stereotypical bartenders Hollywood was so fond of portraying, he actually was; cloth always in hand, attention fixated either on the spotless counter or on a flirting customer. In another situation, he might have shuddered.

He wondered whether Wade would find this an interesting line of conversation. "I'm busy every night," Peter said instead. A careful diversion.

"So you're saying you don't even have time for fun?"

Peter snorted— a reflex action he hated and had no control over. "Not the kinda fun you're thinking of, Wilson."

"You don't know what I'm thinking," Wade exclaimed. He grabbed at the sides of his head wildly, gripped onto the hooded skull with fierce intensity. When he continued to speak he proceeded hesitantly, as if genuine in his uncertainty, "Do you? Please don't tell me you can read minds. Oh, wait, maybe that won't be such a bad thing. Can you tell what I'm thinking right now."

Peter rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I don't need to be able to read your mind to know that it's something dirty."

Wade slammed his hand on the counter, loud enough that if the building were empty the sound would have echoed off the solid walls.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, triumphant. "Pancakes. I was thinking about pancakes."

"Pancakes? Really?" Peter asked, disbelief lacing each word.

"You know, I had an ex-girlfriend tell me my pancakes were the best she ever tasted."

"You sure they weren't just the _only_ ones she ever tasted?" Peter asked dubiously, raising an eyebrow to stand in for a smirk.

A laugh, dry as a desert gone a year without seeing the faintest of rains, fell from Wade's lips. A harsh, mocking bark. "You say that now, Parker," Wade began. His voice was low, low enough to be construed as dangerous if not for the gleam behind his coffee-stain eyes, the impish grin that danced across his face. "But you'll take it back the moment you taste my pancakes."

"I'm taking this as a promise," Peter teased lightly.

He chuckled, airy and almost a girlish giggle, when Wade held out a pinky finger, hooked and waiting for Peter to clasp his own around it.

"I promise to make you pancakes," Wade said, more fierce and determined than Peter expected.

Odd, Peter thought, the man's devotion to a batch of pancakes.

Like a fist punched violently, raced forward with uncontrolled anger, a _beep_ shattered through the joyous holds of Peter's memory. Grabbed him from the walls of the heated club by the front of his navy blue shirt, straining the pale blue buttons, and forced him back into the enclosure of a streamline, vintage Cadillac that was as to him cramped as it was beautiful.

The driver behind Peter honked again, impatient to move yet without anywhere to move to; without anywhere to put their impatience. Peter shifted his car— Harry's car, but he liked to think they shared everything— a quarter of an inch forward. The insistent honking stopped. The driver seemingly placated by the attempt at movement Peter had made— oh, what miniscule things people will hold onto in times of personal crisis. What events, as tiny as they are, will make a person happy, leave them content with the situation they had been placed into.

It was exhausting, Peter thought. Being human— being a living, sentient creature.  
He would much prefer to not have to deal with complicated human emotions ever again in his life.

Strange where the mind seemed to end up with the most random conclusions. How the mind often happened to draw strange connections between different thoughts, memories, situations.

In that moment, trapped in traffic and the confines of a car, fingers tapping thoughtlessly against the steering wheel, Peter thought it might be quite pleasant to be a tree. Thought it would be quite pleasant to be a simple plant; one of those that weren't specifically grown to be butchered, just there to live out their lives without hassle or frustrations.

"Yes," he muttered to himself, inching the car forward a bit more. "I'd like that."

The transition from city to sprawling countryside was smooth. Dwindling slowly from skyscrapers to low buildings and houses to open fields as far as the eye could see.

The city would always be his home, but the isolation of the country held a special place in Peter's heart. If only he were there for pleasure.

A building, sprawling, spectacular in its Grecian mansion-like glory, rose across the horizon in the nearing distance. A building that just barely upheld its facade of the ancient, and seemed more like a building that tried its best to be intimidating. Tried, but failed miserably.

Peter nodded a greeting at the surly guard seated in a booth behind the high-rising automatic gate, polished black and adorned with silver intertwined leaves, a sign reading _Silver Oaks_ settled inconspicuously dead center of the gate. He smiled at the familiar security guard— Connie, he thought their name was— and gave his own name through the intercom.

The gate slid back noiselessly, allowed Peter entrance.

A winding road of loose gravel lead to a parking lot; compact, hidden neatly out of sight in the back of the complex.

He worried at the flesh of his bottom lip, sensitive already from an entire morning of picking at the skin with his teeth. Walking toward the looming building, his steady eyes landed over couples and families as they strolled, as they settled randomly around the surrounding compound.

Cool air greeted Peter as he entered through the large front doors, sheets of glass framed by wood of a clear white. His sneakered feet hit against sleek linoleum, black and white checkered squares, as he made his way to the front desk that stood smack dab in the middle of the foyer. The desk, a solid marble monstrosity which, in any other setting, should have stood out.

"Mr Osborn?" a young man, one of the three fresh-out-of-college assistants seated behind the curved desk, greeted Peter with a smile and an outstretched hand.  
Acknowledged Peter with a smile before Peter had had a chance to speak.

He started at the drop of the surname. It happened often— on more occasions than Peter would admit he was comfortable with, least of all admit to Harry— this tacking on of Harry's name onto his, over his, erasing him. Peter gathered himself quickly and clasped the other man's hand in a quick handshake— Troy, his badge read in printed block letters.

" _Parker_ , actually," Peter corrected with a muted smile. "Peter _Parker_."

"Oh," Troy murmured. He took a second to look through his computer, "My apologies, Mr Parker. The system has you listed as an Osborn... There doesn't seem to be a Parker anywhere in here— One second, please."

Troy slid with his swivel chair to the assistant seated on his left— a short redhead in a calf grazing skirt. A few minutes passed, Peter watched as the two of them conferred. The young woman, who must also have been about Troy's age, searched through her own computer.

Troy swiveled back and smiled apologetically at Peter. "Again, Mr Parker, my apologies. It _seems_ that my program is a _teensy_ bit outdated. Thankfully Magda has one with your photograph next to your name."

" _Oh-_ kay," Peter said hesitantly.

"You might want to phone in and ask for your name to be changed," Troy informed Peter helpfully. "Next time you could get stuck with someone a little less helpful than I am. Someone who is expecting a Peter Osborn, and will _only_ attend to a Peter Osborn."

"That'll be awkward," Peter said, exuding stuttering awkwardness of his own, "Since I'm _not_ Peter Osborn. I'm not his— We aren't married." He laughed dryly, rubbed at the back of his neck.

Troy raised a questioning eyebrow at Peter. He chose to ignore Peter and his strangeness, sent him through to the _Living and Relaxation_ area where Harry was most likely to be seated.

Peter halted in the doorway leading to the lounge. Half in, half out.

The room, full of people, but they might not have even been there; Peter only had eyes for one. Weak sunlight filtered through thin lace curtains, bathed over the man sitting in the olive green armchair as if it were a throne in swathes of magnificence. Stray yellow light burned the man a fiery golden.

A breath caught in Peter's throat; he had forgotten how beautiful Harry was.

"Are you going to stop staring and come over here already?" Harry asked, laughed lightly at the startled expression which crossed Peter.

"You caught me," Peter said. He smiled crookedly, teeth catching on his bottom lip.

Harry lowered his book onto the sturdy side table. He raised an eyebrow, beckoned Peter forward with a smirk and waited.

Footsteps muffled against thick carpeting, Peter walked toward Harry.

"I don't think it's socially acceptable for me to sit in your lap, Har," he pointed out with a laugh, and held out a hand for Harry to take instead.

"Since when do you care, peanut?" Harry asked and clasped Peter's hand and pulled himself up from the couch, pressed himself flush against Peter.

"Peanut? That's a new one," Peter noted, smiling sweetly.

He ran a thumb over Harry's knuckles, hands clasped together between their chests.

"I've had time to think of a few," Harry said quietly. "Can I kiss you?" he queried, hesitant.

A smile danced across Peter's lips— nothing was better than the gleam in Harry's eyes as he waited patiently, head tilted slightly upward, for an answer.

Peter hummed his response, nodded his head slowly. He smiled into the chaste kiss; the bare, soft peck of lips.

"Strawberry," Harry said, a breathy murmur, as he took a step back from Peter.

"Huh?"

Harry grinned wickedly, dropped their clasped hands to hang between them. "You taste like strawberry."

Running a finger over his lips, Peter said, "Trying a new lip balm."

"I like it," Harry said, stealing another kiss from Peter.

The first time they had seen each other in three weeks— the longest, since the two of them had been in a relationship, they were forced to be separated— and they were forced to be cordial.

A fire burned with having Harry so close to him. Able to hold, to kiss, to touch, but just barely. Peter needed so much more. Needed to consume the fire that was Harry and to, in turn, be consumed by it.

He loved Harry. A few moments of spending time together— privately, intimately— was all he needed to be reminded of that; to forget all about Wade. Peter was sure.

"C'mon," Harry urged sweetly, glancing over his shoulder as he tugged Peter behind him.

"Where are you taking me?" Peter asked.

"Just outside. It's nicer."

Harry was right. The small garden nestled behind the building was far nicer than inside. Grass that shone a lush green; the kind of green that seemed to come straight out of a bottle. Trees with deep green leaves and pale purple flowers scattered the courtyard, vibrant flowers were planted everywhere else, in pots beside wooden benches and lining the winding pathway.

They walked slowly, side-by-side, Harry's arm slot through his, curled comfortably into Peter's side.

"I think I could spend every day in a place like this," Peter noted absently, casting a slow glance around him.

"We have the country house," Harry reminded him, "It _would_ be really nice to settle there for awhile... When I get outta here."

Peter chuckled softly. "You think I don't see right through you? Trying to get me all alone in the countryside."

"Where no one can hear you scream." He sing-songed in a high voice.

"Oh my God, Harry," Peter groaned, smiled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you know how creepy that is? Give me two reasons why I even stay with you?"

Tendrils of hair tickled Peter's neck as Harry rested his head on the curve of his shoulder. Brief, reveling both in the close contact for a few moments and in the vibrations of a hushed laugh traveling through Peter.

Humming under his breath, Harry seemed to think about the question Peter had proposed. " _Well_ ," he said, dragging the word into two syllables, "I'm gorgeous, that's one. And, our apartment has enough space for a dog. For two dogs, in fact, and a few cats."

"That explains why I've put up with you for so long," Peter agreed, hesitantly disentangling himself from Harry as they stopped at a table. He pulled out one of the two wrought-iron chairs for Harry to sit in and took a seat across from him.

A light wind rustled the overhanging leaves of the tree, hanging over the pair and casting them in shifting shade.

For a few seconds, a few meaningless seconds, Peter could pretend the outside world didn't exist. The world was at peace. All that existed was here and now; him and Harry.

Harry stretched his hands across the table, towards Peter. "You're too far."

A sweet smile danced across Peter's face and he laced their fingers together. "I missed you, too."

He leaned forward, inviting. His smile stretched wider as Harry leaned forward to meet his lips halfway. The kiss was short, sweet. A chaste meeting of lips, Peter sucking lightly on Harry's bottom lip on it before he pulled away.

Their hands lay intertwined on the table between them.

"So, tell me what's been going on with you," Peter urged, running a calloused thumbs over Harry's unblemished knuckles.

"Keith from three doors down has a pair of tattoos on his inner wrists that he's really proud of," Harry said, "I wouldn't tell you, but he _insists_ on showing everybody so I don't think he'd really mind. It's really detailed portraits of Abraham Lincoln, I think you'd appreciate it."

"Interesting..." Peter murmured. "Why Abe, though?"

"You know what, I've never asked. And I probably never will."

Peter hummed under his breath in answer. He raised Harry's hands, graced each one with the barest brush, the lightest press of his lips in a kiss. The only thing Peter wanted was to shorten the gap between them; to kiss Harry, to hold him, to feel Harry curled up beside him.

He had missed him. Missed him, without adequate words to describe how much.

Wade was around— a welcome distraction— but he was not Harry.

"How's work?" Harry asked, piping up as if to remind Peter of where, and with whom, he was.

"Exciting. A little bit strange to be bartending again, y'know, instead of just doing the photography thing." Peter shrugged.

"Or the househusband thing."

"What can I say, I'm pretty good at the househusband thing."

Harry exhaled a laugh. He flexed his fingers where they curled between Peter's.

"What's his name?" Harry asked, unexpected, without malice. He lifted their joined hands to wave between them, non-committal. "This guy you're thinking of."

"He's nobody. Nobody at all," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I'm that transparent?"

"Mm hm." Harry nodded, leaned across the table to plant a kiss on the man's lightly stubbled cheek.

Peter chased Harry's lips desperately, barely brushed a kiss against Harry's skin before the man lowered himself into his seat again. Just out of reach.

"He's just a guy who stops by sometimes; a good friend," Peter explained. He was glad to finally get the weight off his chest; sure that bringing the subject forth with Harry would cause any romantic feelings he had for Wade to dissipate.

"You jerk, I'm not worried," Harry said, cutting him off. "Sometimes it's like you forget we've been together eleven years— almost twelve years. There's no harm in looking, or thinking. I trust you."

Peter breathed out, relieved. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to replace you or anything. Or that I'm going behind your back. Harry, I don't want you think that I'd do anything to hurt you. I love you."

A hand reached out, cupped Peter's cheek in a firm caress. Firmly, Harry repeated himself, " _I trust you_."

Peter smiled, close-lipped. He should have been reassured, he knew that, but at the words _'I trust you'_ ringing in his ears, he couldn't help thinking _'you shouldn't'._ It rang in his head and he hated himself for it.

They exchanged lazy kisses, seated across from each other at the table, as they strolled the grounds with their hands held between them; the press of lips puncturing the fluidity of the conversation.

And, when they parted with a strong hug— arms wrapped around each other, holding each other close for just a few moments longer— Peter breathed in the scent which clung to Harry, a mix of him and of this place, and he wondered how he'd be able to get through the next three months alone.

 

"Mr Parker," the doctor greeted Peter, rising from the padded seat to shake his hand.

"Dr Shea," he returned the greeting, slightly nervous, as he often was around doctors.

He lowered himself into the cushioned chair in front of the large wooden desk— _mahogany,_ he guessed, but it wasn't exactly his field of speciality. Sunlight filtered through the open blinds over the window, slanted across varnished floor. The office had both the comforts of a home, a library or an old-fashioned drawing room, and the style of the ultramodern.

Hands; Peter never knew what to do with his hands. Where to place them, how to hold them, when to move them, when to keep them perfectly still. Least of all did Peter know what to do when he could only imagine he was under close scrutiny.  
He crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap, rested on his right thigh; fought through the discomfort of the position, unnatural for him, and held it, throwing on his most charming, most polite smile as he looked at the doctor.

"How's Harry been doing?" Peter asked, skipping the pleasantries. "How's his progress?"

"Not one to mess around, are you, Mr Parker?" Dr Shea posed her rhetoric, elvish laugh dancing at its edges as she opened the thin file on her table and paged through it. She ignored the huff of breath from Peter as her eyes glanced over the words.

Peter watched, waited less than patiently.

Hands clasped on the table, legs crossed; Doctor Shea was a more composed mirror of Peter. "The treatment we offer at Oaks is far from radical, yet it is still experimental; this we understand. Where most institutions would much rather lock their residents in rooms without doors and windows, we believe in _'_ _serenity of the surroundings, serenity of the soul'._ We promote tranquility itself as, not a _cure,_ but a factor into helping patients manage their mental disorders, and find peace within themselves."

He nodded, listening attentively to Dr Shea speak. Listening, though unsure why he was being made to sit through the introductory talk once again.

"Harry," she said his name with a fond smile, "Seems to be progressing at a steady pace. But after careful observation, myself and the rest of his attending doctors agree that his stay with us should be extended."

"Extended? Why?" Peter echoed in shock, louder than he intended, attention fully grasped. He breathed in sharply and gripped his hands around the arms of the chair, forcing himself to calm down. _Extended?_ Harry had seemed fine when they had been together barely twenty minutes earlier; actually, he _was_ far better than before he arrived. "You just said he was progressing steadily." Peter surprised himself at the calm of his voice.

"I did, and I meant it," Dr Shea agreed. She crossed her hands over the closed file and spoke, doling out facts with steely precision, "Harry, though improving, continues to spend much of his time in seclusion, refusing to interact with many other residents. Is often rude when confronted with strangers and strange situations. However, and I'm sure you've noticed, Mr Parker, that not only has Harry managed to leave the confines of his room, but has also spent a considerable amount of time outdoors."

Peter nodded his agreement, worried at his inner right cheek as the words sank in.

"Mr Parker," the doctor called to him quietly, voice a gentle river lapping against its shore, "Harry exhibits levels of anxiety and paranoia that will never really go away, but through the treatment we offer we expect for it to curb."

Again, Peter nodded. Extending the stay was important for Harry; he understood, he really did. It still stung.

"How long?" Peter asked, words he knew he was speaking; he could feel them tickling his throat, the roof of his mouth; yet still they felt disconnected from him.

Dr Shea smiled sympathetically, "Six months."

Her mouth moved as she continued to speak, but over the rush of blood in his ears and his heart threatening to burst from the cave of his ribs, Peter couldn't hear a thing she said.

 

His drive back to the city was torturous, deafening in the silence that not even the music playing over the radio could drown out.

Darkness fell as he neared the city, like a blanket settling calmly and engulfing the car and the vast surroundings. Darkness punctured as the lights of the bustling city spread before him.

Nine months, Peter thought, swallowing the painful lump that sat in his throat. He couldn't be away from Harry for that long— never had been before.

He realized, for the first time, that he was alone. Completely alone.  
In choosing to stay in New York as his friends moved on with their lives, in choosing to stay with Harry, to devote himself to Harry, he had isolated himself. Without Harry he had no one.

The thought of returning to an empty apartment, to a bed that even in his mind's eye seemed suddenly too large, filled Peter with dread. He shook with the anxiety overtaking him, holding him hostage.

But, he didn't have _no one;_ he wasn't entirely alone _._ Peter bit into the tip of his tongue and took the long-winded detour from heading to his apartment to the seedy bar on the other side of town.

 _Sister Margaret's_ _—_ the neon sign flashed dimly above the door to the bar. It caught his eye as he parked and distracted him as he stepped out of the car. Distracted Peter long enough for him to walk into the hooded man standing idly in front; blending in with the shadows and virtually invisible.

"Woah, watch where you're going," Wade chastised playfully, hands tightening around Peter's arms as he helped him right himself. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Peter said, shaking of the embarrassment with a weak laugh. He hoped it sounded genuine to Wade; he wasn't even fooling himself. "Excuse me for not seeing the shadow skulking outside in the dead of night."

"You're just lucky I'm not dangerous." Wade looked Peter in the eye and smiled, hands burning pleasantly where they remained on the exposed skin.

Looking into Wade's eyes was much the same as looking into the bottomless depths of a mug of coffee. Coffee that had been poured into a cracked white mug and left out just long enough to turn cold. Coffee that, if not for the slightest few drops of milk, would have stirred a solid black.

It was strenuous, the effort it took Peter to look away.

"Well, it wasn't somebody dangerous. It was you."

"I'm pretty dangerous."

"I've seen your collection of Hello Kitty watches, Wade," Peter said attempting to joke, voice sounding forced and strangled to his own ear. "I doubt you are."

He watched Wade, as his smile slipped and his hold slackened.

"You're right," he said, shouting over the music now pounding through the bar and failing to mask the loud yells and screams from inside. Wade took a step back. "I have to go," he yelled, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in case his point hadn't gotten across.

Peter felt the space between them like a chasm. He couldn't stand being left alone again— not for the second time in one day— to wallow in the emotions threatening to drown him.

"Wade!" Peter called, loudly and entirely without reason, at the man standing right in front of him. "Wait." Softer then, quieter and gentler.

Two steps forward and he closed the gap between them.

"I don't want to be alone right now," Peter said. His voice weak, tearing at his throat as if it were an effort to speak. "I _can't_ be alone right now."

He was pleading. For what, Peter wasn't quite sure.

Maybe it was the look in his eye; or maybe it was written across his face as clearly as if he'd stamped it there in bold ink; or maybe it was the way he clung onto Wade, his hand wrapped tight around his wrist. Because whatever he was silently asking for, Wade understood.

Rough fingers, scarred and calloused, brushed against an unmarred cheek; wiped away sweat and dust and dried tears.

"Okay," said Wade, "You don't have to be."

Wade leaned forward, bowed his head slightly to meet his lips with Peter's.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song Peter sings in the car: 'Look After You' by The Fray


	5. Something Like Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this posted yesterday, but I got distracted by Black Panther (which is incredible, please go watch it). So, in celebration of my birthday, here is my gift to you ♡
> 
> Please take note of the rating change

The apartment was nicer than Peter had expected— spacious, well furnished. In any other situation he would have spent a good many minutes walking through the rooms, eyeing the few framed pictures adorning the walls, attempting to imagine the life of the man who spent each of his days wandering these walls.

In any other situation, Peter would have taken the opportunity to learn about Wade; about the things he never dared to utter.

In any other situation, any other moment. Except the current, where Wade had attached his mouth to the slender curve of Peter's neck and seemed to make it his sole duty to have the younger man squirming, gasping for breath, from the simple touch of his lips. The gentle flick of his tongue. The filthy nip of his teeth.

Peter balanced precariously with his back pressed against the unpainted, brick wall and his legs around Wade's waist; not too comfortably, but comfortable enough for the fact that Wade stood before him and held Peter in place with solid hands gripping into slender hips.

A hand cupped his cheek gently, the thumb brushing innocently against the corner of Peter's mouth. "I'm here," Wade said, panting, breath delightfully warm against the younger man's skin, "What are you thinking?"

Peter groaned tiredly. He didn't want to talk— didn't want to want to utter a word of any of his issues— instead, he leaned forward to chase after Wade; missing his lips the mere second they were gone.

Peter didn't want to think. He wanted to get lost in the intricate simplicities of bodies moving in stuttered unison. He wanted to be brought to the edge by a man he had met by chance; a mysterious, marked, stranger.

 _What was he thinking?_ He was thinking that everything happening was a mistake. He was thinking he was a horrible person. He was thinking he didn't deserve either of these men— Harry _or_ Wade— to love him, to want him, to care about him. He was thinking he should leave.  
But Wade continued to touch him through his shirt and his pants, to plant light kisses on his neck. To tickle him, to bite lightly at the skin just above his collar and, _oh God_ , Peter wanted this so bad.

"Thinking 'bout you," Peter answered quietly, almost truthfully.

He ran a hand under Wade's T-shirt, brushed the tips of his fingers over the rippling, muscled torso. A shiver ran up his spine— lightning in a storm running down a long metal pole— at the realization Wade, and his impeccable body, would soon be more than just pressed against him; would be settled over him, drilling into him until he couldn't see clearly.

"Stop," Peter murmured, impatient, all but uncharacteristically whining as he tugged the man's shirt upwards. "Get outta this."

Wade pulled away slowly. A smile curled his lips upwards, eyes flickered over Peter; bracketed between him and the wall, mouth parted and slick with saliva, chest heaving as he struggled to take in deep breaths.

"Wait," Wade said. He grabbed ahold of Peter's hands, gripped him by the wrists and halted him from roaming any further.

Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Peter stared up at the older man. "I could get used to this," he teased with a half-smile, jerking his restrained wrists forward.

"I'm serious, Peter," Wade insisted.

His hands dropped by Wade and now free, Peter curled long arms around his neck; hungry for touch, for the simple, unerotic pleasure of skin against skin. He pulled Wade closer to him— shortened the already miniscule gap between them— fingers demurely rubbing slow circles into the man's back.

"Peter," Wade said— half desperate moan, half firm chastise.

"I'm listening," Peter said, fighting through the fuzziness in his head to bring himself back to the moment; to the importance of it.

"Don't look so down," Wade murmured, voice thick with desire, finger drawing patterns in imaginary lines over exposed skin— sharp collarbones, the hint of a shoulder— trying to coax a smile from Peter.

It worked. Peter smiled, bit into his bottom lip and allowed his eyes to slip shut. "I just _want_ you Wade. I need this."

"Me, too... Baby boy, you don't know how beautiful you are. How wild you drive me," Wade said, "But what about Harry?" Less tactful than he should have been, than he had intended to be.

With a loud sigh, expelled from his lungs as if it were his last breath, Peter pressed his fingers against Wade and dropped his arms to his sides. He huffed loudly as they landed with a heavy thud against the wall.

Another thud— quieter, muffled by hair as Peter dropped his head back— followed.

"Why?" Peter asked, voice a croak, staring up at the ceiling. "Don't talk about Harry. Let's... pretend. Just for now. For tonight. Please."

Silently, Wade inched his fingers up legs and curled his hands around thighs; effortlessly supporting Peter, his legs curled around Wade's waist, his weight against the wall.

Peter could feel his eyes on him, burning into him, taking him apart piece by already shattered piece. Could feel him, yet— maybe out of fear of what exactly he would see— couldn't bring himself to return the gaze.

"Oh, Peter." Surprisingly affectionate.

The warm unexpected wetness of a mouth on his skin, the curve of his neck, made Peter gasp loudly; too taken by the lick of a rough tongue, too taken by the sucking of lips to be embarrassed at the loud, breathless sound.

Without words— without a _need_ for words— Wade let Peter know he understood. He saw Peter's pain, recognized his sadness, and he understood.

That was all Peter could ask for.

"Let's do this," Wade chirped, smile wide and crooked.

"Gosh, Wade. Why are you like this?" Peter groaned. He tightened his legs around Wade's waist, dropped his arms around the man's neck and clung to him desperately.

Wade chuckled and opened his mouth as if to speak, but was promptly quieted before he had a chance to say anything— cut off by Peter tenderly, desperately crashing their lips together.

Secure in his arms, Peter let himself be carried into the room. Smiled, laughed thoughtlessly as Wade, kissing him hungrily, tumbled them onto the bed.

Clothes were removed without a care, thrown across the room to be searched for in the morning.

In this strange room, on this strange bed, Peter could feel the insecurities as they began their slow and steady creep over him.

He had never had sex with anyone but Harry. Had never been intimate at all with anyone but Harry. Had never even been naked in front of anyone but Harry. And now, laying beneath this man staring at him as if he were sculpted by Michelangelo himself, Peter could feel the heat burning his skin as it tainted his skin a crimson red.

What could he say? _Don't look at me like that. Don't make me feel as if I'm the most beautiful person you've ever seen, like I'm incredibly stunning. Don't look at me at all._

Wade wouldn't appreciate that, Peter knew. He himself was unaccustomed to such thoughts.

Hands and eyes roamed over bodies; each of the men taking in the feel of each other, the sight of each other. Drinking each other in completely.

Wade brought his lips to Peter's ear, kissing him lightly and asking, voice gruff and sending a shiver up the younger man's spine, "Are you okay?" He waited for the affirming nod, for Peter to utter his staggered _okay._ "You ready?"

Again, Peter nodded. He steadied his breathing and held onto Wade.

His eyes slipped shut as Wade prepped him, fingers moving slowly, coaxing out the greedy little moans which fell from Peter without his control. Even if he tried, he wouldn't have been able to censor himself.

Then Wade was inside him, filling him; taking him slowly, carefully, gloriously. Making Peter's body his own.

 

Peter woke disorientated and unsure of where exactly he was, in whose bed he was laying in. He darted sleep encrusted eyes around the strange room, caught a glimpse of the familiar clothes dusting the floor.

Warm breath ghosted over his neck and cheek. That, and the weight of an arm settled across his waist, brought Peter to a quick realization.

He bit down on his bottom lip in a weak attempt to hold back the euphoric smile threatening to overtake his face. The last thing he wanted was for Wade to wake up and find him smiling like an idiot, but it couldn't be helped. He tilted his head back and glared up at the ceiling, attempted to force his features to rest as he traced a series of cracks in the plaster.

The fingers splayed against his ribs twitched, brushed his bare skin softly.

Peter turned his head to glance at Wade. Surprised, he jumped slightly when what he intended to be a surreptitious glance towards the sleeping man was met by wide awake brown eyes and a knowing smile.

"Good morning," Wade greeted, smiling; almost smirking.

"Oh," Peter muttered flatly. He laughed nervously, embarrassed at being caught mid-reverie; in the middle of remembering every starved kiss, every gentle brush every lingering touch—

"That's all I get? _Oh_?" Wade teased, bumping his nose against Peter's jaw. He trailed slow, sweet kisses on the clear, beauty-spotted skin. The kisses punctuated his speech. "No ' _good morning, Wade'—"_ A kiss on his ear. "No ' _how are you?'—"_ A kiss on the sharp line of his jaw. "No ' _how ever did you manage to make me feel so much pleasure, you're better than every other man I've ever been with'—_ " A stripe licked up his neck.

Peter pulled his face into a sharp frown at the swipe of the tongue, strangely both rough and silken against his skin, leaving behind a line of wetness. If not for the soft strength of the hand at his waist, Wade holding Peter close, he would have squirmed away.

"Ugh, Wade," Peter groaned, wiping away the saliva with the back of his hand. "You're gross."

"Okay," Wade agreed without a fight, shrugging.

It was all still strange to Peter, the comfortable quiet which followed. Him and Wade lay together— side-by-side as if they were accustomed to spending mornings together— naked and entangled— and watched the sun as it slinked higher above the buildings. The lines of light and shadow stretching further across the bedroom floor as the sun rose.

Peter could feel Wade's heartbeat against his shoulder, in him, beating out of time with his own. Could feel his breath like a mist on his skin.  
He waited for the guilt to take him; the disgust at what he had done to overwhelm and drown him. And, when it didn't come, Peter wondered whether he should be grateful or terrified.

His betrayal was of the worst kind, and for him to feel nothing... What did it say about the kind of person he'd become?

Underneath the cover of pale sheets, Wade inched his fingers over the smooth expanse of Peter's torso— tickling lightly as he went. Eyes closed, Wade searched for the man's hand and smiled when he found it resting lightly on his stomach. Silently, he intertwined their fingers.

Peter swallowed the cough which threatened at the breath caught in his throat.  
The perfection of the moment was surreal— still, serenity as if the city outside didn't exist; they could have been anywhere else; in an isolated cabin in the middle of the woods, nature as their backyard.

"Hey," Wade murmured. He nudged Peter with the tip of his nose, calling Peter again as he called for his attention earlier.

Under his breath Peter hummed and turned to look at Wade.

If last night, drowning in misery, Peter thought looking into Wade's eyes was like looking into a cup of darkened coffee, it was different now. His eyes, in the dawning light, was like looking at the beauty of both the sunset and the sunrise at the same time.  
It took his breath away. It did, but it shouldn't.

"Hi." His voice just as quiet so as not to disturb the peacefulness.

They locked gazes, stared at each other for a heartbeats space.  
Questions rang true in Wade's stare, answered by Peter in the part of his lips, the infinitesimal incline of his head. An electric force pulling them to each other, almost.

Wade closed the minimal gap between them and joined their lips in a slow, sensual kiss. He slipped his hand from out of Peter's loose hold, smiled into the kiss as Peter whined for the return of contact, contact he was all too willing to return.  
He caressed Peter's cheek lovingly, brushed his thumb over the corner of his mouth, ran fingers through curly hair.

The gentleness of his touch brought Peter back from the cloud he had been on since he'd awoken, back to stand firmly on solid ground.  
Like water gushing through a broken dam, the guilt and self-hatred Peter searched desperately for earlier hit him fiercely. Floored him; struck him with a vengeance.

With strength and speed he didn't know he possessed, Peter pushed Wade off him, away from him. He tumbled clumsily, far less gracefully than he could have been, out of the bed and onto the floor with a muted thud. His body sprung to action before his mind was given a chance to think the situation through.

"What—? What the fuck, Pete?" Wade asked, devoid of venom despite his choice of words, brow creased.

That look, etching lines into his face, hurt Peter more than anything else could have. He would rather the man yell at him then look at him with this utter concern; as if Peter, his welfare, were worth more than Wade's own.

All this time he had been so concerned about betraying Harry, not once did it occur to him how much he'd be hurting Wade. How much, in fact, he could end up hurting himself.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Peter muttered, non-sensical as he made his way through the room to pick up his stray clothes.

He repeated the words over and over and over, until they ran together into the sound of a babbling brooke, individual words indistinguishable. Who was he apologizing to? Himself? Whoever was listening? He didn't even know. What he did know was that he was an awful person.

Arms encircled him from behind, held him close and halted him from tugging on the hem of the shirt he had just managed to slip on.

"No," Wade said, voice quiet yet assertive in his ear. "Peter you are many things, but an awful person? No. Not now. Not ever."

His worries had been spoken aloud and he hadn't even realized.

"You're wrong," Peter hissed angrily and elbowed Wade sharply to get him away, pushed Wade from him. "You don't know me. _I am_." His voice broke when he spoke, turning to look Wade in the eye he croaked, "What am I doing, Wade?"

"Over thinking things. Come back to bed."

Peter shook his head and deftly fastened his jeans.

Throat sore from holding in tears and far too many bottled emotions, he said softly, "Last night, I wasn't thinking straight—"

"Have you ever thought straight?"

"I'm serious," Peter said, cuttingly. "I don't know what I've done. I've screwed everything up. And— I'm _so_ sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Wade. I didn't mean to hurt you. Or use you."

Jacket gathered in his hands, he shot a guilty look at Wade and turned his back on him, ready to walk out the door and not return. Ready to not have to see Wade again.

Except it sounded far easier than it actually was.

He returned to work— spending his time either in _Violet Delights,_ behind the stretch of bar, or freelancing from behind his camera— and expected his life to fall back into place. To return to normal after the rollercoaster of the last few weeks.

He tried to keep his distance and, after five days, it seemed Wade was doing much the same.

At least, until now.

In his usual seat, dark hood drawn, Wade sat. Waited to be served.

"What the hell are you doing here, Wade?" Peter hissed through his teeth, gritted into a false smile, pointedly ignoring Wade's sheepish _'Hey, gorgeous.'_

"I came to see you. I miss you." The earnest in his voice cut through Peter; if Wade offered his bed for the night, Peter would be loathe to refuse. "I miss you, Pete." He repeated sadly.

 _I miss you. I miss you._ It rang in head, a siren calling for him to pay attention to the unfolding scene.  
Maybe in another time, he thought. In another life altogether he would have said it back. Closed the gap between them and kissed Wade, fallen into his apartment, his bed, before the night was over. Made a lover of him, a partner of him.

In another life, fortunately or unfortunately, but not this one.

"You don't understand, do you?" Peter asked, angrily sliding forth a hastily mixed concoction so as not to seem idly chatting; Queenie had scolded him for it before. "What I've done? I'm with someone already— a boyfriend who I love to death. Who I've loved for years."

"Yet, we slept together. I'm not one for romantics but I have to admit it was great. Almost quite a bit _magical_."

Peter sighed, dropped his head in defeat. "I'm trying to talk about this like adults and all you ever seem to do is make jokes. This isn't the time."

"Okay, I'm done." He raised his hands in surrender. "You want to talk, let's talk. I care about you, Peter. Ever since I first met you I haven't gotten your eyes out of my head. Haven't been able to get _you_ out of my head. Sex with you was amazing and I've wanted it for ages, but if you don't want to sleep together again I'll understand. I'm not going to stop being your friend 'cause of that."

Peter was used to people walking in and out of his life on a whim, was used to friends and acquaintances and their relationship woes. He heard so many stories of people leaving once the sex they wanted was withheld, for Wade to say he couldn't care less surprised Peter.

A part of him had pegged Wade as the _good guy,_ at the very least the _righteous guy._ He was glad that had won over the part of him which instinctively had thought of him as the villain.

"I love Harry," Peter said, for want of anything else to say. He couldn't exactly spew his feelings to Wade.

Wade drained his drink and leveled his gaze with Peter. "I'm not the one who has to be convinced of that." With those words, Wade slid his chair back, placed the money for the drink on the table and made to go.

Peter spoke quietly, not sure if he was speaking to Wade or himself; if he was trying to make it clear to Wade or himself. "He's the only man I've ever been with. I couldn't just desert him when he needs me most."

"Maybe, and I'm just spitballing here— Maybe you should do what you want to do."

So, he did.

 

Peter tumbled back into bed with him. _Bed_ in the figurative sense; the two barely made it past the front door before hands and mouths were exploring, reacquainting. Before clothes were dropped and forgotten about.

In a heap on the floor they fell, a titillating entanglement of arms and legs.

"So good," Wade murmured into Peter's ear, breathlessly and through loud, wet gasps. He brushed his hand over the younger man's thigh, and whispered his praises. "So good, Pete."

He planted sloppy kisses along Peter's neck— kisses which, in the throes of passion, were wonderful.  
Pushing Peter to the edge, Peter calling out in sweet, short gasps of breath— gasping _ah'_ s; tireless murmurings of Wade's name, said as a kind of mantra.

"So sweet," Wade said, unable to think of any other words as Peter came, tightening around Wade as he did so and spurring on his own climax.

Taking in heavy breaths above him, Wade lay on Peter, pressing against him as he gathered himself.

Peter, panting for breath, kissed Wade lightly on the round of his shoulder before he poked him. "Okay, get off me," he said, mock frown creasing his features.

"I don't remember you being the one giving orders here."

"Excuse me, were you asleep for the whole last hour?" Peter asked, mischief shining in his eyes.

"What can I say, I like a lover who can take charge of me," Wade said with a wink. He caught Peter, head on the floor and neck on full display, and landed a soft kiss to the strong curve. "Who tell me what to do. What they like. What they want."

In other words, not the kind of partner Peter had expected Wade to be, least of all, in bed. Still it was perfect, he couldn't ask for anything more.

On the floor, Wade beside him, keeping him warm, Peter could have fallen asleep at any moment. Exhausted from a full day of work followed by a full night of sex, the comfort of the floor was unparalleled. The next morning his body might be sore, but it would be sore anyway. Nothing in the world would be able to persuade him to move from the spot.

Wade rubbed slow circles into the slim hip of the man beside and partially beneath him. His mouth by Peter's ear, he whispered, "Let's clean you up and get into bed."

"No," Peter yawned tiredly, curling himself around Wade, "This is who I am. I live here now. I've accepted my fate and it's time that you accepted it, too."

Wade chuckled, voice rough from sex and a need for sleep. He ignored the whines from Peter as he disentangled and headed to the kitchen to dampen a cloth. Movements gentle he wiped the mess— Peter's mess— off Peter's stomach.

In the time it took Wade to walk from passage between lounge and kitchen, to the kitchen and back, Peter had fallen asleep.

He vaguely felt hands settle on him, strong arms cradle him and easily carry him to bed. But in the morning, though he awoke in the bed beside Wade, he wasn't sure if it happened or if it were all a fanciful dream.

 

When he wasn't with Wade, he was bored. Peter lived in this state of edginess, crazed with a lust for touch he couldn't control.

Peter longed for the sound of his voice, for the feel of Wade's hands against him— caressing him as if he were made of glass, or digging into him hard enough to leave dark bruises the next day.

He ignored the tinny voice in his own head which insisted what he felt wasn't real, just a side effect of him missing Harry. Him being lonely.  
He ignored the voice of his conscience, pretended it didn't exist, and each night spent sleeplessly holed up in Wade's apartment and each morning woke up beside him.

"Hey, baby boy," Wade said as a sort of greeting, waiting on the pavement outside of _Violet Delights_ with a jacket folded over his arm.

"Hey," Peter replied with a wave. The effort it took to restrain himself from planting even the most chaste of kisses on Wade's cheek was startling.

"Thought I'd return this, in case it got cold." Wade handed over the burgundy sweater Peter had forgotten over to him.

Peter readily slipped into it, thankful. Inside the club, packed from end to end, the cold wasn't easy to notice. Outside, the chill bit at the exposed skin of his arms, his neck, his face.

"You didn't have to bring it, I could have managed the cold 'til we got back to your place."

"Yeah... We can't head back to my place tonight."

Peter paused, regarded Wade for a blinks length. "Why not?" He asked, equal parts curious and suspicious.

"I may or may not have promised a friend he can use it to charm an online girlfriend," Wade said, "You may not have had time to notice, but I have a great apartment. Great stuff in that apartment, too."

"I noticed," Peter said dryly. "So, you have a hotel you can go to, or something? Since you're renting your apartment out for the night."

"Hotel room?" Wade questioned, brow furrowed. He smirked at Peter and took a step forward. "I was thinking more along the lines of both of us going back to _your_ place for once. Getting down and dirty on your four poster bed. Or in your kitchen. Or in your shower— you know mine's too small."

Back to his apartment, Peter had avoided precisely this for weeks.

"'Down and dirty'?" he repeated with an amused laugh, sidestepping the line of conversation. "My God, Wade, you're so _old_."

"Old? I'm thirty-five!" Wade protested, following close behind Peter, hands in his pockets as he casually strolled away.

"Old."

"I'm only seven years older than you."

"That's right, seven years _older._ Old." He repeated himself, taking pleasure riling Wade up.

Wade fell into step beside Peter, looped his arm through the younger man's. "Just wait seven years," he grumbled.

"You'll be forty-two. And I'll be distinguished."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"You're right," Wade said softly, turning to look at Peter.  
Peter felt he could hear the words the man wanted to say— _You're right, I don't hate you, I love_ _you—_ and hoped he wouldn't utter them. Wade cleared his throat and asked instead, "Where do you live anyway?"

"Not far— about twenty minutes walk away." Peter chuckled at Wade's grimace, nudged him with his shoulder. "We can grab a cab if you want. We wouldn't want to hurt your fragile bones, would we?"

"You're not even trying anymore." Wade shook his head in disapproval, in mock disappointment.

Peter shrugged; Wade wasn't wrong.

He curled against Wade, fell comfortably into his side. Wade removed his arm from being looped through Peter's and laid it to rest across his shoulders; the weight of the arm was assuring, Peter settled happily beneath it.

He let out a quiet sigh and could almost pretend that this moment— him and Wade— was all that existed. That the rest of his life were little more than a dream from somebody else's mind. Peter cherished the thought, though he knew in a short while the delusion would be shattered.  
Shattered simply by allowing his two worlds to merge. By bringing Wade, his greatest seduction, into the home he shared with Harry.

"What are you thinking?" Wade asked.

"Just how good you look tonight," Peter answered, smiling and casting an appraising look over Wade; in his olive green sweatshirt with the hood drawn up worn underneath his black leather jacket, close-fitting black pants and muddied black boots, he was the image of anarchic handsome.

"And how good I'll look later. Without all of this on," Wade said, eyebrows dancing.

Peter sputtered, bit his lip at the thought in anticipation of the rest of the evening. Wade was a masterpiece; an example of Achillean perfection. Muscles rippling underneath severely scarred skin; skin he was self-conscious of, yet was no less beautiful for.

Peter could spend an eternity staring at him without ever growing tired.

The walk had seemed to pass quickly, already they were only two blocks away from Peter's apartment building. They turned onto a street bustling with mostly high school and college aged kids; couples and groups of them dusting the pavement, filling the strip of restaurants. Music from the different restaurants mixed together and formed a blanket of sound around the two of them.

"Who knew this place was so busy?" Wade noted, squirming slightly.

Intertwining the fingers of his left hand with the fingers of Wade's, still resting on Peter's shoulder, fingertips brushing Peter's collarbone. Peter tilted his head towards Wade, lip brushing against his ear. "You wanna stop for something to eat? Ice-cream, maybe?"

"I dunno, Pete. Could we just get back to your place?"

Peter hummed and tugged on Wade's hand, stopping them in the middle of the chaos, in front of an ice-cream store.

He flicked his tongue to touch the corner of Wade's mouth, smiled as he shivered.

"I'll let you eat yours off me," Peter urged, voice a sing-song.

Wade swallowed. "Whipped cream would be better."

Peter chuckled, aware that he had won his way. He tightened his hold on Wade, dragged him into the relatively empty store to wait in the winding line.  
They reached the front and Peter ordered for both of them— saying "I live on the wild side" as he ordered two three tiered waffle cones.

Ignoring Wade pestering over his shoulder to ask whether they sold chimichanga's, or chimichanga flavoured cones, Peter asked for the large mint choc chip, choc chip and bubblegum scoops for him, and three strawberry scoops for Wade.

The street quietened down a bit once they turned a left corner and walked down past more refined restaurants; not much, but a bit.

Peter, feeding off Wade's heat as they walked, felt something like peace bloom in his mind. Dress his face in a smile, colour his eyes.

He sneaked a glance at Wade; Peter didn't deserve him— and he would soon lose him— but, Peter promised himself, while he still had Wade, he would cherished every moment spent together. Running a tongue over his bottom lip, tasting the mint chocolate chip staining the soft flesh, Peter looked forward to finally making it home.

He couldn't wait to have Wade in bed with him, beside him, underneath him. Couldn't wait to run hands over the dip of a muscled back, the swell of a strong ass.  
The thought of him, so sweetly vulnerable, sent shivers of pleasure through Peter.

"Let me get a taste of yours," Wade said, interjecting the comfort of the fallen silence. He paused from licking at his scoop of strawberry flavoured ice-cream, polluted with pieces of small frozen berries.

Peter glanced up at him again, ever the sceptic. "You've never tasted mint choc chip before?" he asked.

"Every version is different," Wade reasoned with an easy shrug.

Peter held out his cone to Wade. "Sure—" he began, only to be cut off by Wade bypassing the offering and pulling Peter in a slow kiss.

Wade, hand rested on Peter's hip, slipped strong fingers into the belt loops of the younger man's jeans and pulled him closer. The tension, broiling in the pit of his stomach, tightening his muscles and holding his body stiff, drained from the mere touch of Wade's lips.

Silently, he ran his tongue over dry lips, flashed a wide grin at Peter. "Tastes good," Wade said with a smile, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he pulled away.

"You could have waited five minutes," Peter scolded, glancing ahead of them to the building standing ten feet away. "The building's right there."

Smile tinged with muted sadness, Wade held onto Peter; caressed his face and brushed his thumb lightly against his cheek. The empty silence, barely a few seconds long, seemed to stretch on. Wade simply stared into the chasms of brown eyes.

"I had a good time tonight," Wade said.

"What? It's not over," Peter said with an easy laugh, "I've got dripping ice-cream here and a years worth of rom-coms upstairs."

"I think I'm gonna go, Pete," Wade said, taking a step away from Peter, "Maybe that hotel room isn't starting to sound so bad."

Peter peered at Wade, stared speechlessly, creased his brow in confusion. Almost automatically, he grabbed Wade firmly by the wrist. He refused to let Wade go— not so soon after he had fully begun to give into the excitement of having Wade in the luxuries of his apartment.

"You're going to say no to 'The Proposal'?" Peter asked.

"Usually, no... But I know you don't really want me up there," he said softly, waved in the ambiguous direction of the apartment.

"Wade—"

Wade stopped Peter with a kiss, silenced him effectively. Insisted, "It's _fine."_

Peter stuttered. Unsure of what to say, he decided to let the words just flow from him as they came. "Okay, yes, I'll admit at _first_ I wasn't overly thrilled with the idea of having you _here—_ In _this_ apartment— Where I've spent so much time with Harry. It made me... uncomfortable. But I want this. I want you to be a part of my world." Infinite relief engulfed Peter as the smile— the genuine smile Peter adored— lit across Wade's face. "Now, can we please go up? I've got ice-cream melting on my hand."

Switching the waffle cone from his left hand to his right, Peter held his hand to show Wade the thin rivulets of ice-cream— an amalgamation of three different flavours. He shrieked, too shocked to be embarrassed at himself for doing so, as Wade licked the melted dessert off. Stared Peter in the eyes as he sucked Peter's fingers into the warmth of his mouth.

Nothing— _not a single_ _thing—_ Peter had experienced before, in his life, had been as sensual.

A sharp wolf whistle from across the road drew their attention away, cut them short.

Burning a fierce red, Peter grabbed his hand back and dropped it to his side. He and Wade turned to see the group of cheering onlookers— high schoolers, assumed Peter; goths and punks, almost definitely.  
Two of them, standing in front dressed in leather skirts over mismatched black and white stockings, and netted crop tops, waved animatedly.

Awkwardly, yet immensely happy, Peter waved back. Restrained himself, unlike Wade, who seemed one-hundred percent prepared to run across the busy road and grab each and every one of them into bear hugs.  
Peter fisted the material of Wade's jacket in order to stop him from racing through the traffic seemingly without any concern for his safety.

 

"I keep thinking about those kids from last night," Wade said, strolling naked into the bedroom.

Beads of water rolled sensually down his body, glistened and shone on his skin.

"You know, that isn't exactly what I'd like to hear after just giving you the best fucking of your life," Peter said. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and spared Wade a glance from his laptop.

Wade shrugged and finished toweling himself off— he wasn't particularly dry, but it would do.

"Best three and a half hours of my life," Wade said breathily, gazing far into the distance. "It feels like I'll be sore for ages."

"It won't fade soon. But I didn't push you too hard, so, you'll be okay," uttered Peter, distracted, fingers flying over the keyboard. "You won't die."

"Don't worry about that. I'm kinda incapable of dying."

"Yeah, and I'm a masked weirdo running around protecting the city."

Wade barked a laugh and flopped onto the bed beside Peter. Inquisitively, he peered into the screen. He shrunk back at the walls of thick text which bombarded him.

"What'ya doing?" Wade asked sweetly.

Tearing his attention away from the device for the first time that morning, Peter turned to look at Wade. "I've been thinking about going back to school," Peter said.

The way he said it made it seem as if he'd spent weeks, months, weighing pros against cons; deciding the best route of action; turning the idea over and over in his head on sleepless nights.  
He said it as an utterance which had soaked in the depths of his mind and his deepest wants, as if the pure weight of it were enough to shatter an entire reality.

Peter hadn't spent months of his life thinking about returning to school. It had been an impulse decision, made when he awoke and, holding Wade in his arms, could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he took shallow breaths.  
Already, and for the first time in his life, Peter chose to take a chance; played a dangerous game with the Fates simply by being with Wade. Why not take another chance? Offer himself up against the Fates for a second round? A third?

He hadn't spent weeks, months, thinking about returning to school but once the idea came to him, Peter realized it was something he'd wanted for a long time.

"I always had this impression that you'd already finished college a few times," Wade said.

Peter hunched his shoulders slightly, in something almost like a shrug. Somewhat stilted, when he spoke, Peter said, "I _started_ working toward my degree in biomechanics. Y'know, I'd had it all planned out in my head, ever since I was a little kid... I guess... Life just got in the way after that. Harry got promoted at Oscorp. We'd been so excited, we skipped town for the weekend and ended up in France. He asked me to move in with him while we were standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower," Peter smiled fondly as he remembered, "Somewhere along the line, I'd been persuaded into just... staying at home. I'd gotten this idea that I didn't need to finish with my studies. Harry could look after both of us."

Peter ran a hand through his hair and forced out a hushed laugh. He hadn't really meant to tell Wade as much as that.

"If you want to return to school, I'll be more than happy to take the role of sole home executive," Wade offered seriously.

"Of course you would," Peter said, leaning down to kiss Wade.

He chose to, not ignore all the references to a shared future they both seemed to often make, but push it away. File it in a dusty corner to be unpacked and scrutinized at a later date.

Chaste as he intended to be, Wade had ideas of his own. His hand roamed over Peter's thighs, unabashedly cupped him through his sweats. The laptop was gently closed and discarded, laid to rest underneath the bed.

Peter melted into the kisses, into Wade, and couldn't help but smile. He was in bed with a stunning, charming man; a man who adored him, who treated him as if he were a priceless jewel, who looked at him as if he were the moon itself. Returning to school was an almost tangible prospect.

For now, just for a while, Peter would allow himself to pretend as if nothing except this moment existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out (or send me a birthday gift), you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


	6. Half War, Half Peace

If Peter were a song, he would be the kind of song played quietly in the background of the most important part of a movie. The kind of song no one really noticed until it was too late, until the scene was over, the movie end credits had rolled and it was three days later and the song was stuck in your head and you realized the moment probably wouldn't have had such an impact, left such an impression, if not for that song. That simple, complex melody. Those thoughtful, heart-wrenching lyrics.

Wade leaned casually in the chair beside the large bed, the padded backrest curving with his spine. The tanglement of thoughts ran through his head as he watched Peter lay tangled in the satiny golden sheets, freshly changed the day before, chest rising and falling in time with his shallow breaths.

He spent most mornings this way— frame silhouetted by the early sun, still rising through the blanket of darkened sky and casting its weak light through the parted curtains to dust over Peter's sleeping form— and waited diligently for the first signs he was growing tired of taking in the beautiful man before him. It never came. Wade doubted it would have come even if he had prayed hard for it.

Peter caught on a breath in his sleep and coughed lightly, enough to stir Wade from idly staring at the pigeons flying past.

Someone had once told Wade, or maybe he'd read it somewhere— seen it on a website, in a book, as a picture— the five things to look for in a partner. How long ago had it been? Wade wasn't sure, however long it had been he could no longer remember most of them.

Listen to the way they laugh, and to things that make them laugh? That sounded about right.

He thought of Peter— his tongue gliding over his lip before they curved upwards into a delicate smile, creasing the corners of his mouth and folding the skin around the corners of his eyes. The laughter that bubbled from him at the strangest jokes.

Wade smiled slowly at the thought. He wanted to devote every second of his life to making Peter smile, to learning how to coax forth a laugh from the man.

Dark eyelashes dusted the tops of Peter's cheeks. Sharp, prominent against his fair skin, the long lashes curled in much the same way as a lock of wet hair coiled around a finger curled.

The second thing... The way they talk to you, the way they whisper in your ear.

Lips pressed against Wade's ear, brushing against his skin as he whispered seemed the only way Peter liked to communicate when it was just the two of them.

"Good morning," Peter rasped in a slow whisper, voice still thick from sleep. Thicker, still, from mischief; attempting to see exactly how aroused he could get Wade before the hour ended.

Or, taking a break from poring over paperwork and textbooks to sidle up to Wade and innocently whisper, "I'm so done with all of this." And smile into the kiss Wade offered, not having anything to say.

Or, standing behind Wade, barely a few inches shorter, yet asking sweetly, his breath ghosting over Wade, "Pass me the teabags, babe."

Wade checked that off the list. If Peter continued to progress as steadily as this, Wade would be forced to spend the rest of his life with him. Maybe even marry him.

Peter flickered his eyes open and grinned at Wade— sleepily, beautifully lopsided, slightly confused — before burying his head into the pillow and falling back to sleep.

God, Wade loved him. More than anything else, _anyone_ else, Wade loved him. The days became weeks became months and the words had not been uttered, not even been hinted towards.

Too much between them was complicated.

He buried that and tried to bring forth a third thing to add to the slowly growing list.

He went back to laughter. He couldn't help himself; Peter's laughter ringing in his head.

Peter had a laugh of pure, jagged beauty.   
A laugh to quieten a room and drag everyone's attention to the source of the shaky giggle, the deep chuckle.   
A laugh which Peter often tried to stifle, to tame. Wade hated whoever it had been who made the man feel ashamed of the beauty of his laugh, the naturalness of its dips and swells.

Wade traced his eyes over Peter— half his face smashed against the pillow, his mouth parted in his sleep, a small drop of saliva dotting the left corner of his mouth— and still he was an incredible sight to behold.

Number four? A quiet voice piped up from somewhere in the depths of his mind. _How does he feel about children?_ A question that struck home, hit a lot harder than it would have hit anybody else.

Almost in another life it seemed, Wade had had a daughter. The pride and joy of his life.

Images flashed behind his eyes as he stared at Peter. Peter cradling the babies of work friends and colleagues who, even on a day off, weren't able to part with their children; Peter smiling as he held them, as he helped with them; Peter kneeling to look a toddler in the eye, hysterical from being separated from his parents, and successfully calming him down; Peter pulling funny faces at the stoic twins seated in front of them at movie theater, during the trailers; Peter effortlessly understanding the tweens and teens he met.

The younger man groaned and scratched the tip of his nose. His hand fell back and landed heavily on Wade's empty space in the bed, hitting the mattress, with a muted thud, instead of skin.

"Wade?" Peter called quietly, still mostly asleep.

Wade swallowed. He inched out from the chair and padded across the short expanse of floor to reach the bed. "I'm here," he answered, crawling back underneath blankets, "I'm right here."

Instantly, Peter curled around Wade and latched onto him, holding him close.

Wade knew he loved Peter. Had known for ages. But he hadn't realized until that very moment, as he worked his way through the checklist, just how much he loved him. Just how prepared he was to spend the rest of his life with him.

It was a terrifying thought. One he couldn't afford to have, not when Peter, and his heart, belonged to somebody else entirely.

He pushed the thought to the furthest recesses of his mind, planted a soft kiss on Peter's forehead and took pleasure in the smile the action brought to the man's face. He could learn to cherish these moments for what they were: delicate, and fleeting. Memorable _because_ they were fleeting.

_The sun rises and sets with you,_ Wade thought. He reclined comfortably in the bed and watched Peter sleep and remembered when, from a distance, he had watched Peter work.

His smile, even from that distance, was enough to brighten up the room; to touch even the furthest corners, the places where light didn't dare touch. Wade wondered how he managed to survive so many years without that smile, without that gentle curve of sculpted lips; lips parted to reveal the tips of teeth.

Thumbs hooked in the loops of his jeans, Wade sauntered from the couch to the bar. "Hey, baby, do you come here often?" Wade asked in a dramatic Southern drawl, leaning his side against the counter.

"Your accent is awful." Peter frowned pointedly, running a dishcloth through a glass jug.

"It doesn't matter— We're _acting_ ," Wade said, pointedly stressing the last word and staring back, "My accent is allowed to be terrible."

Peter shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe you're a Southern millionaire if you don't sound like a Southern millionaire?"

"We're also _pretending_ ," Wade said.

"I just don't feel really comfortable doing this in public. It's one thing at home... But... Public." He finished lamely and with another shrug.

Wade ran a hand over his eyes. "Baby boy, it isn't like we're screwing on the bartop. We're just... We're taking on different personas. We've done it a dozen— a _million_ — times before."

Carefully placing the jug on a shelf beneath the counter, Peter avoided meeting Wade's eyes. He worried at his lip, at the cloth in his hands, before he spoke. "I know we've done it before. It feels different 'cause, you know—" He waved a hand, gesturing at nothing. " _And_ I feel like I'm in a Penny Jordan novel."

"I didn't know you like Penny Jordan," Wade mused. He laughed at the cutting look Peter gave him, then reached out to pry the cloth from the man's hands. "We don't have to if you don't want to."

"Why couldn't I be the billionaire and you be the working girl he seduces?" Peter asked, affecting a grim pout.

"Because we're always at your work."

"Ugh... okay. Let's do it. But I don't know how in the world you expect to get into my skirt with an accent as atrocious as yours."

Wade gasped, held a hand to his chest. "My _accent,_ thank you very much, is not _atrocious_."

Peter raised his shoulders in an unbothered shrug, and gestured for Wade to continue.

He reigned in the grin threatening to overtake the controlled frown plastered across his face and continued from where he left off. "Mornin', darlin'," Wade said, trying harder with the accent if it meant Peter would actually play along, "You come here often."

"I work here," Peter deapanned. He groaned loudly. "Sorry. Can we blame being at work for this?"

"What, blame your work for you being a saucy little asshole? Isn't that your default setting."

Peter clicked his tongue. Glaring at Wade, he said, "Your southern billionaire should ask a better question than whether I come here often."

"Okay." Wade gave in with a sigh, raising his hands in surrender.

"Swear to God, Wilson. We have to get it right this time," Peter said, brow creased angrily, as if Wade were the one ruining the scene for them.

Wade didn't mind; he understood Peter's anxieties and ran with them, did whatever he could to make Peter feel comfortable.

It wasn't like this was the first time they began a scene in public— that, no matter how raucous it threatened to get, never bothered Peter. The difference came in him being at work.

Wade cleared his throat, straightened his imaginary cowboy-hat and began again.

"Role play is a great way to help keep the fire burning in a relationship", Peter told Wade, one Sunday night after he'd come out from the shower and fallen into bed beside Wade— he remembered it was a Sunday because Peter had the day off and plans to spend the day out were floating around since Thursday; a kiss in the morning lead to tangling in the sheets, a hand cupping the cheek of a ass lead to giggles and Peter being pressed against the wall, bumping into each other as they washed and dried dishes lead to unbuckled pants and touching each other other and seeing who could hold out the longest— Wade won.   
Then they decided to spend the rest of the day staying in. After all, unlike in the safety of an apartment, they couldn't fuck in public as the mood took them.

Wade didn't think their _relationship_ needed any fire to ignite their passion. The barest touch— the barest _look—_ could have him and Peter tearing at each other's clothes, as if they were starving and hadn't feasted on the delicacies of human touch in aeons.

The gleam in Peter's eyes, and the hundreds of scenes Peter inspired, made Wade readily and excitedly agree. The excitement only growing at the excitement it elicited in Peter.

Laying in the bed, Peter beside him and feeding off his warmth, Wade smiled to himself. He could happily allow his mind to run through his memories of Peter, stored well and securely, and pretend that this was the only life either of them had to live. Pretend that he wasn't who he was— a mercenary, a machine, an experiment— and Peter wasn't somebody else's.

Heavily, Wade sighed. Resigned himself to his thoughts until either he fell into a light rest or Peter woke from his sleep. And he knew he wouldn't be able to rest.

"You okay?" Peter asked sleepily, touching his fingertips lightly against Wade's cheek.

"Yeah," Wade assured him. He took Peter's hand from his cheek and brought it to his lips, placing a light kiss on Peter's palm. "Go back to sleep, baby boy, I'm okay."

Brown curls falling into his eyes, Peter struggled to push himself up and balance his weight on his side. Inches between his face and Wade's, Peter looked down at Wade and smiled warmly. "You know you can tell me... Anything." He cupped Wade's cheek, rubbing his thumb over the thick scarring at the corner of Wade's mouth; scarring which Peter seemed to be incredibly enthralled by, in a way which made Wade feel revered instead of shamed. "Anything. I'll listen. Tell me you know that."

"I know."

Movements fluid, Wade wrapped his arms around Peter's waist. Catching the younger man off-guard and tackling him, rolling on top of him so that he was beneath Wade, bracketed by Wade's arms, pinned by his body and the ferocity of his gaze.

"I know," Wade repeated, words breathed against Peter's neck.

_The sun rises and sets with you,_ Wade thought as Peter hooked his legs around Wade and pulled him in for a kiss. Thought it before they were a tangled, laughing mess of limbs and sheets.

Wade wanted this every single day.

 

"You have work today?" Wade asked, circling his arms around Peter's waist from behind.

Peter craned his neck and, smiling, caught Wade in a kiss. Early morning light fell in soft planes across the kitchen, cast upon Peter as he turned to Wade, large mug clasped between his hands. "I do," he answered, simply and with a small smile.

"But do you _really_ have to go to work?" Wade asked. He bumped his nose against Peter's, innocently pecked his lips. Arms on either side of Peter, Wade bracketed the man in against the counter, his hands flexing around the sturdy marble.

Unlike Peter, who had to spend the day at the _Bugle_ and the night at _Violet Delights_ , Wade didn't have any work obligations. There was endless opportunity for him to worry the man at night, but during the day he was mostly left to his own devices.

"Yes, Wade," Peter said, both exasperated and fond, "I _really_ do have to go to work. If I take anymore off days I'll probably get fired."

Wade trailed a hand down Peter's side, let his finger rest against his bare thigh. A vision in the morning, with his sleep-tousled hair and oversized olive green sweater.

"Then we get to spend more time together," Wade reasoned with a shrug. He smirked suggestively, "And now, _darlin_ ', wouldn't that be fun."

Peter groaned at the affectation, at the horrible Southern accent. "Please, _please,_ never do that again."

"But—"

"Never." Peter interrupted. Training his gaze on Wade like a warning. "No more reminders of that night. No more."

"Admit it. You had fun."

Peter had laughed so much at the accent, at the entire character, he could barely be bothered to focus on anything else. Hours later, hands digging into Wade's shoulders, eyes boring into Wade's, Peter begged Wade to never bring up that night again. To bury it in the depths of his mind and history.   
His insistence to forget only making Wade want to bring it up as often as possible.

Taking a long sip of the chai tea, Peter separated himself from Wade. Patting the man's cheek lightly as he walked away, he said, "I'll never admit anything. I'd rather spend the rest of my life in chains."

"That can be arranged." Wade followed behind Peter, pinching his ass as he passed.

Peter swatted his hand away with a breathless laugh, a sharp admonishing. The smile he threw over his shoulder at Wade— all teeth and lines creasing the corners of his eyes beneath the frames of his glasses— was enough to stop Wade in his tracks.   
Peter was beautiful. Breathtaking without even trying to be.

Light footsteps on tile faded out of Wade's hearing, Peter making his way down the passageway and into the expansive bedroom.

Wade dropped into the nearest sofa. Sighed as the luxury of the chair hugged his skin, seemed to soothe the ache of his body. He could get used to this, Wade knew he could if he gave himself the time. He _had_ the time. And, if not for the all-too-present knowledge of Harry, Wade wouldn't hesitate to let himself become a part of this apartment. Become a part of Peter's life.

His phone rang, vibrating loudly in his pants pocket. Too deep into his own thoughts, Wade answered without looking at the caller ID. "City morgue," he deadpanned, staring with half a mind at the reality show playing on the muted TV.

"Wilson?" the roughened voice began. Hoarse, feminine.

"Yeah," Wade said. He sat up in the chair, straightened from his comfortable slouch. "Who's asking?"

"Um... They told me you liked beer," she murmured. Wade imagined she had been more sure of herself while she'd been making the decision to call him, losing her nerve the moment Wade had answered the phone. "I'm Mar— Miss Márta."

Wade shot a quick glance down the passageway. Standing to check whether Peter was within earshot of the conversation, Wade heard the faint sound of water gushing from the shower and hitting against tile, he continued. "Well, Miss Márta, _they_ were right." He gave her the name of _Sister Margaret's,_ setting a time to meet for the evening before hanging up. If it ran for too long, Wade probably wouldn't see Peter that night.

The goodbye kiss Peter gave him before he left had to be enough until they saw each other again.

And that night, pop music pulsing through him, Wade sat himself in the booth furthest in the back, across from a woman. Half of her face hidden beneath the wide brim of a stark black hat, the rest of it beneath carefully applied make-up. Lines in her face betraying her age.

_Miss_ _Márta_ , she repeated her name with the hint of a smile. Her fingers unnaturally bent, like bones broken and healing without being properly set, she slid a picture across the grimy wooden table. "They said you can help me. That you _take care_ of people like him." She lifted her head then, met Wade's gaze full-on and with shaky determination. He thought her middle-aged, but her eyes shone as bright as Peter's— as anybody in their early to mid-twenties— and he realized what appeared as age was heavy make-up in attempts at hiding bruises and scars and a deep indistinguishable pain.

Wade fingered the edges of the photograph. "Who is he?" he asked.

She swallowed. "My husband. They told me you ask for money. That's fine, I have a lot of it. I don't care. I just need him gone." Her voice rose harshly on the end and Wade didn't miss the way the tips of her fingers strayed towards the swell of the belly, barely noticeable beneath her black cardigan. Wade understood.

His name was Colin Anderson, Miss Márta told Wade. Internally, Wade snorted at how ordinarily suburban he sounded. He would be spending the upcoming weekend in Italy. _Work related._ She spat the last bit bitterly, in a way that let Wade know her exact thoughts.

Wade stopped her from explaining more. There was no way he could deny her his help. He had decided to help her from the moment he met her.

 

"—you're probably wrong, y'know." Peter's voice floated down the passageway, from the kitchen to the front door, greeted Wade as he entered their apartment— _Peter's_ apartment. Mingling spices wafted down with his voice; the smell of food almost as welcoming, but not as much.

His laugh was easy, breathy. Silent as possible, Wade closed the door behind him. Treading lightly, thankful for the carpet paving the passage, he stopped outside the kitchen. Unable to stop himself from listening in on the conversation.

"I doubt your neighbour is a CIA operative— No! That _is not_ enough evidence." The sound of a spoon hitting against the side of a pot was followed by Peter cursing under his breath— a muttered _fuck._ "Hm..." he murmured into the phone lodged between his ear and his shoulder, "I'm just making dinner. How hard is it to get curry out of cotton?— What d'you mean, why would I ask you? I mean, I get that you're a spoiled rich boy— Don't cut me off. That's rude."

Wade smiled to himself. Watching him from the doorway, listening to him laughing as he spoke to Harry— it didn't fill him with the burning jealousy he had expected.

Peter grasped the pot handles between his oven-mitted hands. He caught sight of Wade— leaning against the wall in the entrance to the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest— and smiled as he placed the pot on a small wooden stand in the middle of the the island.

Waving, Peter pointed to his phone and mouthed _one_ _second—_ _Harry_ in way of explanation.

Wade shrugged, inched forward and told Peter not to worry. Not to rush himself. He knew that Peter and Harry hardly got any time to talk— Harry's phone privileges had only been restored at the beginning of the week. An hour twice in seven days was hardly enough.

"Aunt May sends her love, by the way," Peter continued, tasting the curry. He hummed appreciatively and passed the spoon to Wade, watching him with an eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Peter smiled and Wade wasn't sure if it was because of Wade's nod and whisper of _that's good,_ or because of something Harry said.

Turning away from Wade and the counter, Peter opened the oven. The smell of toasting bread and garlic deliciously filling the kitchen. "Hm... I think she's already planning an engagement party," Peter said, laughing quietly. He took out the trays one at a time, listening. "I don't know, Har... You really want to talk about that all now—— No... It's just... Maybe when you get outta there, and we're face-to-face, we can bring it up again."

_Engagement party. Engagement._ Wade's smile fell ever so slightly. He busied himself with pulling out glasses and mixing two glasses of juice.

"Button, let's not argue," Peter reasoned. He sighed, exhaled a laugh and glanced up at the silver clock mounted over the kitchen's entrance. "I wish you had more time. God, I'd take an extra five minutes, even... Friday? Yeah, I'll be free at eight. Of course, I'll be free. Love you, too."

Hanging up, he left the cellphone on the counter beside a discarded dishcloth. Sighing wistfully, he stared into the distance. Peter shook his head, seeming to drag himself out of his head and into the room; back into the present with Wade.

Wade watched him, worried at his lip as he did.

Old sweatshirt, torn and stained, bags under his eyes and his hair a mess from the tug of his own fingers, Peter was a sight for sore eyes. They worked around each other, adding the final touches to the table, in comfortable silence.

"Sit down," Peter called, head in the fridge, blindly indicating over his shoulder.

"Okay, if you insist." Wade chuckled, settling into the high chair at the counter.

Absently, he dished out a plate of the creamy chicken curry. Lifted the plate to his nose and breathed in the thick aroma— fresh, spicy. Peter wasn't the best cook Wade had ever come across, but he did pretty well for himself— even to Wade's own standards.

A warm hand slid up his shirt and rested on his skin, pressed lightly into the hollow of his back. Peter planted a chaste kiss against the curve of Wade's neck, stayed close behind the seated man and rested his chin against the line of his shoulder. Speaking into Wade's ear, Peter murmured, "Hi."

"Hi." Wade turned his head and caught Peter in a clumsy kiss. Relished the taste of fading mint and the hint of curry from when Peter had taken a taste.

Sitting down across from Wade, Wade missed the close contact the moment it was gone. Missed Peter— the feel of him, the day end smell of him— the moment he no longer stood close enough to touch.

"Hope it's not too hot for you," Peter said, pointing to Wade's plate with the rounded end of the spoon.

" _Puh-lease_ _,_ I am the spice king."

"Okay, Spice King," Peter teased, "Whatever you say."

The curry had bite, and tasted as good as its scent suggested. He moaned under his breath. Content with the mixing of the flavour of the curry and the garlic bread.

Eyeing him, Peter asked, "Good?"

"Very good," Wade agreed around a mouthful of food. He washed it down with a large sip of juice.

Peter glanced up at Wade. Shot him one of a series of attempted covert glances from under his lashes.   
Maybe he wanted to say something. Maybe he thought Wade wanted to say something— about the half of the conversation he'd heard, about Harry, about whatever was the relationship that Wade and Peter had.

Fingers, long and steady, dancing around his plate, Peter cleaned up the last bits of curry with a small piece of bread. Wade copied the action.

"How's Harry?" Wade asked, catching Peter by surprise.

Mouth full, eyes wide, Peter stared up at Wade. Swallowing, he answered, "He's good... I'm not sure if he's joking or not, but he mentioned that his neighbour might be working for the CIA."

"If Harry's right and they are CIA, they're really bad at their job."

Peter agreed with a chuckle.   
He pushed his chair back, then, and wordlessly began gathering his and Wade's dishes together.

"Hey. What if I wasn't done with that?"

"There's still dessert. So, trust me, you're done."

"Ooh." Wade wiggled his brows suggestively, chin rested on his joined hands as his elbows steadied on the counter. " _Dessert?_ Please be a French maid. Please be a French maid." Wade crossed his fingers, closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the ceiling. Chanting his prayer.

Peter swatted the man's arm as he passed him. "Actual dessert, you sex-crazed maniac."

"So, Harry gets _button_ and I get _sex-crazed_ _maniac_ ," Wade teased lightly.

Peter looked at him, and Wade regretted his words the moment he saw the tight frown. The set and jump of his jaw. _God,_ he was going to mess this up— this fragile thing between him and the younger man. He always knew he was going to mess this up. The good things in life were always the things that Wade couldn't keep, couldn't handle, didn't deserve.

"Really?" Peter's strangled utterance worse than if he'd stabbed an ice-pick into Wade's chest. In fact, Wade would have preferred that. "Really, Wade?" He didn't seem to be capable of saying much else.

Wade pushed himself back from the table, went to stand before Peter. "No. Look, forget it. I'm an idiot— _you know I'm an idiot_."

He laughed and hoped his self-deprecation would lighten the mood.

Wade wasn't good at conversations and confrontation. He didn't know how to bring Peter's smile back, but he _needed_ to try.

Peter inched away from Wade. Turned his back on Wade for a blink's breadth before he whirled on his heel. "That's a low blow, Wade. That's— Why would you even say that? Even _go_ there?"

"Go where?" Wade queried, speaking without thinking. "Go _where,_ Pete? 'Cause it's been a fucking long time since you first took me to bed and we haven't even once actually spoken about what's going on. A long time since we first fucked... and moved in together."

When had this become an argument? When had all of this begun to worry him? How hadn't he realized it was worrying him until now?

"I can't do this. Not right now." Peter threw his hands up. Seeming to rethink his exasperated proclamation, he forged on, saying, "So let's talk, Wade. What do you want, huh? You want me to break up with Harry? You want us to kiss and ride into the sunset, an orchestra sending us off?"

"No— Yes— God, Peter, I don't know," Wade spluttered.

"I _love_ Harry."

"And _I_ love you," Wade called loudly, yelled, before he could stop himself. The moment shattered, tension dissipating with the force of a pane of glass being thrown to the ground.

Peter inhaled sharply. His hands held firm, clutching the fabric of his pants. "Wade," Peter said on an exhale, "I think you should leave."

Wade nodded. "I was gonna tell you later... I'll be in Italy for about a week."

"Okay."

"I... I'll see you, Pete."

 

He _had_ realized how used to not sleeping alone he was— realized, and then forgot. Harry's body a familiar companion, the space he filled soon accompanied by Wade— the hardened lines of his body taking his place soon after Harry had left.

Peter hadn't slept well in a week. The argument he'd had with Wade— without warning, bursting into the room with the force and the suddenness of a tropical cyclone— played heavily on Peter's mind. He tossed in bed, tugged at the blankets entangling him, unable to fall into the kind of deep and dream-filled sleep he craved.

There was an upside to his stress and anxieties. Staring up at the darkened ceiling, beams of moonlight fighting through the curtain and touching just the edges of the room closest to the windows, Peter found it easy to slip out of the bed. Not glancing toward the side of the bed that lay bare and shot a pang of uncontrolled sadness and _want_ through his heart, Peter gathered together his old textbooks and padded to the lounge. Settled in the upholstered sofa that was _just_ touched by the large floor lamp, he read over the old books and reacquainted himself with the notes.

Not yet had he even applied to a school, but the stress had him prepared for anything new that could be thrown at him.

He missed Wade— so entwined with him and his life; his clothes buried in the laundry basket with Peter's own, his scent— beer and leather, musk and sweet strawberries— clinging to everything in the apartment.  
He missed Harry— a part of Peter's life since they were children, him and Peter infinitely joined.

He _missed_ and he _hurt_ and he could barely breathe for the misery grasping at him. Couldn't find solace in silence or poetry.

He would be back today, Peter remembered. Idly picking at his fingernails— chewed and chipped— his camera hanging loosely around his neck, Peter stared out at the city.

The edge of the building pressed into the backs of his thighs, legs kicking out in front of him from over the side of the skyscraper.   
Lights shone across the city, the sun setting on the horizon and casting the lines of the buildings and the disappearing roads into the deep shades of dusk.

Wade would be back today. Peter wondered if he'd want to start seeing each other again— If he and Wade could rekindle whatever they had without having to so much as mention the argument.

He rose the camera to his eye, smiled at the satisfying click of a photograph being taken.

Footsteps sounded from the roof behind him. Footsteps barely noticeable over the rush of the city; alive as it fell into darkness.

The man, clad in a red suit, sat down on the edge of the building without asking for Peter's permission.

Peter let out a shallow breath. He turned to Deadpool, camera poised, and snapped a quick picture.

"Looks good," Peter noted, looking at the picture of Deadpool framed by the dark oranges and faint blues fading into something nearing black. "I might have to frame this one."

He didn't question how Deadpool had found him. Peter was used to the man showing up as if from out of thin air, finding Peter as if he'd placed a tracker on him.

Deadpool smiled underneath the mask. He bumped his shoulder into Peter's, just as playfully asking, "Why so glum, buttercup? Baby boy. Boyfriend troubles?"

And there it was. Peter cocked his head, lowered his camera— much loved, gifted to him by Harry on Peter's last birthday— to his lap.   
The deep voice, rolling over Peter in waves— wrapping around him, embracing him without the man having to touch him. Bringing him to a place of comfort; home. _Baby boy._

Peter was a fool. A fool, blinded, unable to see what had been staring him in the face.

He let out a loud sigh, expelling it from the depths of his lungs. "Wade," Peter muttered. His spine bent under the pressure of keeping Peter upright, the ground swayed beneath him and Peter let himself fall onto his back. The gravelly paving bit into his back. He repeated himself quietly. "Wade."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, peanuts. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around, left kudos, commented— it all means so much to me. 
> 
> There will be two more chapters before this work is completed, but I am placing myself on a temporary hiatus to work and focus on my original work/first novel. While this isn't abandoned, and I will try to update if possible, this will no longer be my main priority.
> 
> If you want to stay in contact with me, see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


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